


take your kid gloves off

by gealbhan



Series: kid gloves [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Elementary School, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Humor, Mutual Pining, Other, Platonic Relationships, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, autistic caleb, bg beau/yasha, bg fjord/jester, not a kidfic per se but features lots of children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 03:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 106,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Now please repeat what you just said. I think I’ve finally had an aneurysm and misheard you.”“I don’t think that’s what an aneurysm does,” says Nott, tilting her head. Caleb glowers, and her eyes crinkle at the edges as she rushes to add, “I’m your teaching assistant this year!”“I… am not a teacher.”In which the majority of the cast works at an elementary school. The life of perpetually tired librarian Caleb, who—among other problems—has been dealing with his developing feelings for a co-worker for the past year, gains yet another complication when his semi-estranged adoptive sister Nott becomes his colleague, and that's only the beginning. Featuring bonding moments, solidarity, found families, hopeless pining, multilingual flirting, and copious alcohol consumption.





	1. part i, chapter i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb has a visitor and intervenes in a fistfight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some series-wide disclaimers:  
> \+ i do not have personal experience working at an elementary school, but my mother works at our local elementary school, which we both attended and which zadash grade school is heavily based off of  
> \+ i am not jewish -- i have done a lot of research but it might still feel a little off, so feel free to let me know if anything is like... Glaringly Wrong (caleb is reform jewish, other details will hopefully be evident)  
> \+ i also do not speak german, so have relied on various dictionaries (not google translate though) -- translations will be provided in endnotes, except for ja/nein/similar words. it's used sparingly and mainly in sentence fragments (same applies for any other languages that may or may not crop up)  
> \+ i am, however, autistic and ocd (and have a couple anxiety disorders), and a lot of caleb's experiences in that regard are drawn from my own
> 
> fic title is from "kids" by mika, which can be considered one of two theme songs for this verse (the other being "feel good" by neon trees, especially the acoustic version). anyway, into the fic! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i've enjoyed writing it!
> 
>  **eta 4/10/19** : while checking this fic for an excerpt i could reasonably submit as part of a writing portfolio, i noticed one (1) spelling error and naturally decided to run quick edits on the entirety of the fic! so some things have been changed -- nothing major, just brief grammar/spelling edits and a couple of addded lines for the most part

_“Something of exquisite beauty arose in the mind of each at last, something unforgettable and eternal, but built of the humblest scraps of speech and from the simplest emotions.”_

— _Maurice_ , E.M. Forster.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

No one who works at an elementary school can truly have a peaceful day, so it is perhaps the pure shock from how calm his day has been that makes Caleb Widogast let his guard down. He’s in his library (the school’s, sure, but for three years everyone had known it was _his_ ) after lunch, reveling in the tranquility—or illusion thereof.

So far, there has been zero screaming or fighting in his presence—none in the library this morning, none on the playground, none in the cafeteria thirty minutes ago. For anyone else it’d be sad to consider that a success, Caleb is sure. He doesn’t much care.

The illusion of tranquility wobbles at hurried footsteps in the hall, then outright shatters when the door bursts open. In runs a rather short young woman. She stumbles coming in, boot tip catching on the bump between rooms, but her frenzied golden eyes and choppy green-slicked hair are unmistakable.

Caleb stares, mouth dropping open, at his sister. Nott’s face scrunches up as she reaches down to clutch her foot. Fumbling for a reaction, Caleb wonders if this is a lucid dream and he’s dozed off while categorizing his new arrivals. He immediately dismisses the thought—he’d never fall asleep during that. It’s one of his favorite hobbies.

“Hi!” says Nott, voice shrill. She flashes her pointy teeth across the room at him. “I’m here!”

Caleb’s brain clicks back on. “So I see. Why.”

“That didn’t sound like a question. Aren’t you happy to see darling little me?” Nott frowns, still holding onto her foot and bouncing further into the room. At least she’s little and thus unlikely to knock into any of his bookshelves.

Actually, he wouldn’t put it past her. Caleb leaps to his feet and rushes around the counter, shooting a mournful look back at his dinosaur of a desktop.

“You haven’t been ‘darling’ since you were ten,” says Caleb. “And it isn’t unreasonable to ask.”

Nott pulls a face, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She veers uncomfortably close to one of his carts. As soon as Caleb yelps and shoots out his arms to stop her, though, she drops her foot and regains her balance with a weak smile. She spreads her arms as if to prove she’s steady and says, petulant, “Can’t I just visit you?”

“For the first time in two years? Nein, I don’t think so.” Caleb’s hands twitch with the sudden urge to squeeze her cheeks as a threat.

“Okay, okay!” Perhaps sensing something in Caleb’s voice, Nott almost shrieks this, her lips pursing. Caleb’s attention flickers to a ratty bag hanging at Nott’s size. It must weigh twice as much as she does. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise so soon, but I’m going to be your assistant teacher this year!”

A _long_ pause. Nott’s arms wiggle on either side of her, sleeves billowing around her thin wrists. Caleb directs his gaze to a poster on the wall. _Library Etiquette,_ it declares in blocky letters, followed by a list of rules. Nott has broken several already.

“Hello? Caleb?” A dark-skinned hand waves in front of his face. When Caleb glances down, he sees Nott on her tiptoes, ruining the effect—he raises an eyebrow and smacks her hand down. “Ow!”

“I have almost no upper body strength,” deadpans Caleb. “Now please repeat what you just said. I think I’ve finally had an aneurysm and misheard you.”

“I don’t think that’s what an aneurysm does,” says Nott, tilting her head. Caleb glowers, and her eyes crinkle at the edges as she rushes to add, “I’m your teaching assistant this year!”

“I… am not a teacher.”

Nott sticks her tongue out. Caleb squints at it this time—it’s a disturbing shade of blue, suggesting she’d been in Jester’s office first. “Fine, I’m just your _assistant_ then.”

“I don’t need an assistant,” says Caleb. It feels futile to resist, but he wants to at least have plausible deniability.

He can’t have an assistant. He absolutely can’t have _Nott_ as an assistant. A generic assistant would be bad enough (there was that mess with Schmidt the Volunteer™️ his first year), but his goblin of a sister? Hell no.

“Too late! Mx. Feelid already hired me!” She sticks her tongue out again, blowing a raspberry with it this time. “Unless you want to take it up with them, I’m here to stay!”

Caleb glances up toward the ceiling and shuts his eyes. He’s not scared of Bryce—they’re nice and let him do what he wants with the library, which is more than he can say for the previous principal. They’re still his boss, though, and have only been so for a week. When he thinks about doing anything contradictory to their decisions, a knot tightens in his stomach. On the other hand, Nott’s presence and the thought of her finding out Certain Things might be enough to overcome his social anxiety and authority problems. Plus, they hadn’t consulted him about Nott, so—

During his intense internal struggle, there’s a soft _mrow_ from the cat bed in the corner. Frumpkin, the traitor, trots over from his napping position and peers up at Nott, who squeaks.

“Hello.” She whirls back to Caleb, wide gold eyes flickering back and forth. “Have you decided?”

“Not remotely,” he says, eyes narrowed, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

The sounds of children murmuring make Caleb bolt upright. _Scheiße,_ he thinks, snapping his gaze off Nott. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, around two, which means—

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” says Mollymauk, blase, the gaggle of his third and fourth graders surrounding him.

All the light in the room seems to redirect to him as he leans into the doorway, tucking himself against the frame to avoid being toppled by his students. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on Caleb’s behalf. Either way, as the light hits him, his curly hair (dyed a gradient of deep purple to blue) and his bronze skin glow. One hand, the one with the winding snake tattoo that crawls up into his rolled-up sleeve, tucks into his pocket.

Caleb clears his throat and shoots the fiercest glare that still conveys _we’ll talk about this later_ to Nott. She beams, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which are fixed suspiciously on Mollymauk. “Oh, nein, I just—I got distracted—my—my new assistant here…”

If he ground his teeth harder, they’d be powder. He drops one hand onto Nott’s shoulder and stretches the other out, as if presenting her to the mostly uninterested class. Mollymauk lifts an eyebrow.

“…was just getting settled in,” says Caleb, aware it’s been too long a pause but not sure what he can do about it now. “Children, Mx. Tealeaf, meet—” Pause. “Miss Widogast.”

“Miss Nott,” she corrects, waving at the children with a deer-in-headlights expression.

Mollymauk folds his hands at his waist and nods shortly in her direction. He seems off-put by Nott’s narrowed eyes darting toward him every few seconds, on his students the rest of the time. Caleb doesn’t blame him. Another pause ensues, Caleb trying to get his brain working again and Nott beginning to hum “Whistle While You Work.”

“Well!” says Mollymauk, lifting his still intertwined hands. He glances over to where his students are congregated between the library’s entrance and the presentation area. “Have fun, kiddos,” he calls, “and remember to behave for Mr. Widogast. See you in an hour.”

With that, he’s gone in a flash of ombré hair and bright clothes that draw attention away from the sun. Caleb stares at the spot where he’d been for another few seconds—until a student, probably the short and golden-blonde Toya, coughs. Caleb shakes himself and gestures the students over into seats, kicking himself for not setting up seating charts yet. He makes _I’m watching you_ gestures at dangerous pairings of students at the same tables.

“Stay put,” he tells the class at large, hesitating for a moment before adding, “I have the authority to make seating charts.”

That earns a smattering of snickers from mostly new students, who still think he’s kidding when he makes these kinds of threats. They’ll learn. Oh, they’ll learn.

Caleb doubles back to the counter to grab the book he’d been planning to read from. Nott has moved, now in the midst of slinging her bag across in the second spinny chair behind the counter. She eyes him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

“We have not finished our conversation,” he hisses, snatching a sparkling clean paperback off the counter. He knows it’s not long to remain so.

He manages to get through his lesson plans without much issue, reading an excerpt from _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_. The copy shines in the overhead lighting— _like Mollymauk,_ he thinks, then shoves that thought away so as not to go bright red in the middle of describing the White Witch. It’s a fine replacement for the second-edition copy he’d had in the library last year, which had been all but destroyed by certain students that shall remain nameless. Nott is silent throughout, though the chair she’s flung herself into squeaks every now and then from her absent spinning. Caleb thinks she might actually be listening.

When he notices the class growing more and more restless—and, now that he thinks about it, it’s almost half past two now—Caleb finishes the paragraph. He snatches a bookshelf from the literal bucket sitting on the nearest shelf. He may or may not fix the entire class with a dirty look as he does so. He’s _seen_ the dog-eared pages he gets books back with.

“Go check out,” he says, mildly defeated.

Then comes the universal sound of eight-to-ten-year-olds scrambling to their feet and raising their voices (replacing the stage whispers under Caleb’s reading he’d been too tired to address). Caleb shuts his eyes and adds, “Push in your chairs, please!”

A small number of students do as he requests, but the majority flock to the other side of the library, where the books they’re interested in are. He notes Toya pushing in other kids’ chairs.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, despite his grateful smile. “I can and will make your classmates clean up after themselves.”

Toya flushes and says, in a creaky voice, “Mx. Tealeaf says we should be nice to you. Even nicer than we are to _him_ , even.”

Caleb almost drops his book. “Does he.”

“Mm-hmm. He says—” she drops her voice and affects it with a mockery of the light accent Caleb is pretty sure is fake “—‘I’m sure Mr. Widogast has enough on his plate without you brats disrupting the peace.’ Then he told us the opposite applied to Ms. Lionett.”

“Of course he did,” says Caleb, ignoring the warmth coming back to his face. He runs a hand through his hair, then meets Nott’s reproachful gaze across the room. He drops it—and his head—at once. “Go check out, Toya.”

She nods and scurries across the room—“No running,” Caleb calls—and joins another few girls hovering by the folklore section. Caleb sets the book atop the nearest shelf. (Well, the highest of the nearest ones, careful to place it higher than most students would be able to without drawing attention to themselves.) Taking a deep breath, Caleb walks over to lean against the back side of the counter. Beside him, Nott stops spinning in her chair.

“Okay, Schwesterherz, I’ll give you a trial basis,” he mutters, keeping an eye out for any eavesdroppers. Reading to a disinterested crowd had given him an opportunity to work the puzzle that was Nott’s presence and current job out. “I will teach you the ins and outs of working at Zadash Grade School—more specifically, my library. If I do not think your work has been satisfactory by the time winter break starts—which is just over three months—then, ja, I will speak to Bryce. If not, you may stay. Is that clear?”

He’s just glad his voice doesn’t crack. He inhales, quick and sharp, as Nott blinks up at him, processing. Her face breaks out into an open, crooked grin. She kicks the spinny chair toward him so she can wrap her arms around his waist.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” she chants into his torso. The whole thing is very uncomfortable, between the awkward position, the surprise physical contact, and the attention from a few giggling students. Caleb chews on his cheek and pats the top of her head. “I promise I won’t let you down!”

It’s not an inside voice. Caleb pries her arms off, gentle as he can, and resists the urge to shush her. “Right. Now can you go sit in the other chair? I need to be in this one to scan books into the system.”

Nott’s eyes widen. “This is my home now. You’ll have to bring me home attached to this chair.”

“Nein, sorry,” says Caleb, toneless. He takes her by the shoulders to drag her up out of the chair. She wriggles in his grasp, screeching in protest and kicking at his shins.

_Inside_ fucking _voice,_ he wants to say, but common sense and awareness of the children in the room manage to kick in. Something about her word choice clicks in the back of his mind— _home?_ He says nothing, though; better to have that out when not surrounded by kids.

Speaking of—as he reclaims his seat and Nott, scowling, moves her bag to take the other spinny chair, a student with two books in his arms approaches. Pierre, he thinks, a new student this year. Caleb takes the books and the checkout card. While he’s scanning the barcodes, Pierre asks, casual despite his shit-eating grin, “Is Miss Nott your wife?”

Caleb almost chokes on his own spit. He can’t help his face from twisting in disgust. “No,” he says, dropping the card into his drawer and pushing the books forward on the counter. “What. Um. What gave you that impression?”

“You said her last name was Widogast. That’s your last name.”

“Ja, because she is my _sister_.” He tips back in his chair and shuts his eyes. He’s too fucking tired to explain that, even if the same last name could draw conclusions like this, he would’ve introduced Nott as _Mrs. Widogast_.

When he opens his eyes, he catches several other students—bypassing checking out today, whether due to disinterest or inability—forming a line by the exit. He groans. He’d feel bad for cutting Mollymauk’s prep time short, but he doesn’t know if he can handle the next twenty minutes with this bunch. Over a few feet, he hears Nott cackle and involuntarily clenches his fist.

“Please go sit down somewhere else now,” he tells Pierre, who leaves with a smirk.

A row of three more take his place. It’s shaping up to be one of those days only a few students in a class check out—in part because, as the crowd by the door without books would indicate, Bryce is letting Caleb hold overdue books from years past against them. He’s never liked a principal more. Given, he’s only had one other.

Caleb passes the students’ books over as if in a trance, moving methodically through them. As the class scatters to various parts of the room—a handful more stopping by to get their books checked out—he revels in the dull quiet. He has to keep Nott from touching various displays in the twenty minutes that follow. She’s just about as difficult as managing several kleptomaniac children, and it’s not like he’s never had to watch her before, so he doesn’t mind as much as he puts on.

When the bell rings, the students form an almost straight line without incident. Caleb almost cries. “You did it,” he whispers, drawing odd looks from the students and Nott alike.

Mollymauk gets what Caleb is sure is the same expression when he sees the line too, though. It’s fine. He flashes Caleb a bright look, then files out with his quiet (for once) children trailing like ducklings behind. It’s _great_.

Before the self-loathing, as it is wont to do, can sink in, Caleb steps over to his mini-fridge and digs around for an energy drink. He steels himself to handle Nott for the remaining hour or so of his workday. He takes a _long_ drink, then looks around.

Frumpkin, though he’d spent the past hour weaving around students’ legs, is now planted back in his usual sleeping spot. Nott straightens up from petting him and wanders over to one of Caleb’s series carts. The one with _Wings of Fire_ and _Warriors_ , he’s pretty sure.

“Last you told me,” says Caleb, leaning against the counter, and Nott jolts upward and almost slams her head into the cart, “you were living up north somewhere. How exactly did you get down here?”

Nott’s eyes dart across the room. “Took a bus.”

“You—okay.” Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not that I am not glad to see you,” he adds. “The last time was Passover a few years ago, ja?”

“Ja,” echoes Nott. “I—things weren’t, well, working out up there, so I’m here.” She holds out her arms and wiggles them, too-big hoodie sleeves dangling around her wrists. Then, sheepish, she lowers her head and says in one breath, “And I might need to live with you for a while.”

“What.”

“Sorry, Cay-Cay—”

“Still hate that nickname.” He groans and waves it off. His brain is rushing through scenarios, and his mouth stumbles to catch up. “Are you—are you saying that you packed up one bag and are now moving here permanently?”

“It’s not just one bag!” says Nott, indignant. “There are two more upstairs with—uh—a Ms. Lavorre?”

Caleb drains about half of his Red Bull. “Jester,” he hisses through his teeth, dragging out the _r_.

“Is that a newfangled German curse, or—?”

“Icelandic,” says Caleb. Nott nods thoughtfully, and he winces as he sets his drink down on the counter. It’s going to leave a foamy mark. He realizes that. It grates on him after a few seconds, and he picks the can up again. He doesn’t really want to go on the rest of his life with Nott thinking his—their—co-worker’s name is a foreign swear, though, so he says, “Nein. Jester is our menace of a nurse and counselor. Don’t ask how she’s both.”

Nott’s jaw shuts. “She didn’t tell me her first name,” she says, tilting her head. “Or her last, actually, I just got that off the door. She _did_ tell me all about her upcoming wedding to someone, er, F—Fee-yord?”

“That sounds like her.” They’ve gotten off track. Caleb drags a hand over his face, other tightening on his Red Bull, and peers through his fingers at Nott. “Nott, you—you could have called me. I will clean the guest room out for you now, ja, sure, because you are my sister and I love you, but—”

Nott rushes toward him, but stops just short of hugging him. Her head ducks, showing off the mess of green and dark brown at her roots. “Thank you thank you thank—”

“ _But,”_ Caleb reiterates, cutting her off, “it is a temporary arrangement. As the job most likely will be.”

Nott’s shoulders scrunch, but she lifts her head and nods, slow and pointed. A flint sparks and catches fire in her gaze. “I get it.”

A moment of silence while Caleb stitches his thoughts back together. He glances at the clock—though vaguely sure someone is going to wander in and ask for his help with something not in his job description before the day is done, he gestures around the library with his energy drink hand. “Would you like a tour?”

Nott lights up.

+

Nott’s first few days are far more exciting than Caleb’s had been. In the rest of what Caleb dubs in his head as Week Zero (the Wednesday she starts through Friday), Nott pays witness to a number of events, including:

  * an aggravated parent telling Caleb off on the phone because he didn’t let their kid check out due to the exorbitant late fees said child has left over from the past two years;


  * hordes of students trying to con Caleb into letting them check out books clearly labeled _NOT FOR CHECK OUT_ ;


  * one particular student trying to sneak a book out by stuffing it under his shirt;


  * and, most notably, a fistfight. In his library.



Caleb hasn’t really gotten a chance to show Nott around the rest of the school yet, save the office and the bathrooms. Lunch and recess are exciting as ever—he and Beau prevent fights as best they can, though Beau is more competent at stopping them (especially physical) than he is.

So naturally, that firsthand excitement has to come to her, in the form of a fistfight on Friday afternoon. Why not?

He doesn’t notice the two fifth graders duking it out over the new release section at first, preoccupied with scanning books into the system. A weary-eyed classmate (Gail, he’s pretty sure her name is) sidles up to the counter.

“Hey, Mr. Widogast? Monet and Rani are fighting.” She points helpfully across the room.

Caleb follows her finger, expecting this to mean the normal slap fight thing, or maybe just a verbal fight with increasingly worse “your mom” jokes slung back and forth. Instead, he finds himself looking at, indeed, Monet and Rani full-on punching each other in the face.

_“Hey!”_

Nott, in the other spinny chair behind the counter, doesn’t look like she knows what to do. Caleb ignores her as he marches over to the faltering two. They at least have the dignity to look guilty now, Rani with shiny bite marks in her arm and Monet with a bloody nose and patches of hair missing. Rani is still gripping Monet’s hair in her raw-knuckled fist; Monet has his foot in Rani’s shin. Their mouths open at the same time.

Caleb has enough experience in this matter to hold up his hand and say, irate, “You can tell me all about who started it on the way to the office. I do care who did, ja, but right now you both need attention from the nurse. Not to mention the principal.”

Snickers arise from the rest of the class. Caleb ignores it, snapping his fingers at Nott, who’s quick to sit up.

“Miss Nott, please watch the rest of the class while I take these two to Ms. Lavorre.” He places one hand on each’s shoulder, watching them pull faces at each other. Mature. Fifth graders are the worst. “Make sure no one destroys anything. Or gets into more fistfights.”

Nott falters but, after a second, gives him a thumbs-up and a wink. Caleb is fearful for his library. Think of the greater good, he tells himself, as he guides the two out of the library and upstairs in silence. They squabble under their breaths beneath him, but he _really_ can’t care as long as they don’t start wailing on each other again. Their hands are still at their sides when they reach the office, so it’s a success.

Caleb stops outside, peering at Ornna, the fire-haired secretary, through the glass window. “Is Jester in?”

Ornna jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the health room, not bothering to ask about the two bloodied children. Caleb nods and heads inside.

The small nurse’s office is covered in gaudy yellow wallpaper—a clear remodel from last year’s gentle blue, and the year before’s sickly green. A cot is laid against one wall. Clutter dots the walls, counter, and floor. Caleb’s not sure how many posters there are concentrated on each wall and isn’t sure he wants to find out.

He’s slow to close the door, but as soon as the _click_ sounds, a blue-highlighted bob jerks up. Jester turns away from the iPad in the corner, its soft blue glow illuminating her round, freckled face. Her eyes widen once they settle on the three figures in the doorway. Well—one, at least.

“Caleb!” she shouts, muffled, wiping sprinkles and crumbs off her mouth. A quick swallow, then she adds, “It’s so good to see—” Her gaze drops to Monet and Rani, resolutely avoiding looking at her (or the neon walls). She gasps and slaps her hands to her jaw. “Oh no! What happened?”

She scurries around the office—once she reaches Monet and Rani, she shoves them to opposite sides of the cramped room. Monet shifts up onto the scale, and Rani lands with a _whump_ onto the edge of the cot. Jester darts back toward the cupboards. Bandages and paper towels come rustling out—Caleb presses his back to the door, wary of being hit with a canister of Shakespearean insult band-aids. Jester notices this and rolls her eyes. Despite her quirks, he knows she’s very good at her job.

“Shakäste?”

Caleb jumps when a smooth voice says, “Yes?” He doesn’t know how he could’ve missed the new health assistant, now—Shakäste stands near the bathroom door, leaning on his cane. His shock of white hair stands out against the sunny poster behind him.

“Could you clean these two up?” asks Jester, voice muffled as she sticks her head in a cabinet. “Caleb can help—”

“I can?” says Caleb.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Shakäste at the same time. He steps forward, cane knocking against the floor as he stands between the children.

_Well, this is happening,_ thinks Caleb, pushing himself off the wall. The bloody nose isn’t nice to look at. _At least it isn’t a burn wound._ He winces and shakes that non-sequitur off, but it still hovers at the back of his mind. Switching his focus to Jester, who’s shoving a handful of damp paper towels into Shakäste’s outstretched hand, Caleb turns his mind to static before his thoughts can spread to visuals.

Shakäste pauses, leaning over Monet. “Mr. Widogast, would you mind—”

“I—er. Nein.”

Caleb shifts to help Shakäste with moving the towels. Shakäste seems to have memorized the current position of Monet’s face after a few moments. Jester joins them before long, working to get her first-aid kit open.

She’s also fixing Caleb with a sharp look. “What happened?”

“Fistfight.”

“Over what?”

“Um—I didn’t ask?” Jester scowls, disgruntled, and flicks Caleb in the arm. Rani’s eyebrows jump. Caleb jolts back, clutching his upper arm. “They needed medical attention, Jester, I did not have _time_ —”

“You always have to ask,” says Jester, eyes big and shiny. “Otherwise I can’t treat them properly!”

Caleb eyes Shakäste, easing Monet’s head down and cleaning up the blood. “Well—”

“I meant metaphorically.” Jester folds her arms and makes a little _hmph!_ sound. “I can heal their broken nose, but it will not fix their broken hearts, will it?”

“What soap opera did you lift that from?” says Caleb, just as Shakäste chuckles and says, “Wise words, Ms. Lavorre.”

Monet and Rani both look intensely uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation. _Good,_ thinks Caleb in a flash of vindictiveness. He makes a mental note to write them both up when he gets the chance.

“Why don’t you two stay with Ms. Lavorre and—” it takes him a moment to remember Shakäste’s surname “—Mr. Romanoff for now? I need to, ah, go make sure Miss Nott hasn’t torn my library to shreds.”

The two exchange a look. Monet tucks his hair—what remains of it—behind his ears and looks to Jester, whose smile stretches grotesquely from cheek to cheek. Rani, poking her spit-soaked forearm, peers at Shakäste—a more somber figure but still offering a broad smile.

“Sure,” says Rani. Monet glares at her, and she steps on his foot.

Fucking fifth graders. Caleb sighs and glances at Jester, just on the edge of pleading. “You want to find out why they did it, you can ask. You are better with people than I am.”

Jester preens and flashes her sharp teeth at him. “I knew you’d come around,” she says sweetly. He’s about to say he hasn’t, not really, but her doe eyes have already found a new target. “Shakäste, want to help me with Rani now?”

Caleb doesn’t bother sticking around to see how the rest of the situation plays out. Jester will end up telling him eventually, he’s sure. He nods goodbye to Ornna and Gustav, the assistant principal who has just walked in, on his way out, then heads back downstairs.

Well, his library isn’t a complete wreck, which is a good thing. The bell rings as he walks in. Yasha appears on the other side of the room, arms folded. Her students are very far from being in a line. Caleb sighs and claps his hands, shouting, “Line up please!” in unison with Yasha’s quiet command of the same.

He’s not sure which convinces them more (most likely Yasha), but they snap to attention and get in a wobbly yet decent line. Caleb narrows his eyes at Nott, perched in his chair.

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” she hisses as Yasha’s class files out of the door after her, and—Caleb sighs. He can’t fault her for that; he _had_ put her in charge with no preparation for being in charge of a handful of students, let alone an entire class minus two. “And they were—they were all amped up ‘cause of the fight, so—”

“It’s fine, Schwesterherz,” says Caleb. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll—okay. This weekend, I will actually tell you what to do in this situation. It was… an error in communication.”

He dislikes admitting so, but the number of times in college he’d had it out with Beau have taught him to acknowledge his own faults and move the hell on. He’s not used to doing that with Nott, though, so the words feel wrong in his mouth. With them, it was always more just one blowing up and neither really talking about it in the end. Caleb finds that he wants to change that.

Nott’s eyes are saucer-wide and glossy. “Okay.”

It’s uncomfortable, but at least they can leave in a couple hours. Caleb has never experienced a longer week—not even the affectionately-dubbed Hell Weeks before breaks. It’s only the second week of September.

Well, the next two months should be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! i realize it's a rocky start to a regular biweekly update schedule, but i may skip friday's update so i can finish up what i have left of the first draft + get ahead with edits -- might decide otherwise when it rolls around, but for now that's the plan. see you in a week!
> 
> translations:  
> \+ Scheiße: shit  
> \+ Schwesterherz: dear sister
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	2. part i, chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb delivers soup, is conned into fulfilling his bimonthly happy hour quota, and dances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're back!! tue + fri updates should continue for the foreseeable future! (they'll be around 12am est)
> 
> this fic/verse now has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/gealbhan/playlist/6vNJwZ2p7CwWQicKExt1Cf?si=YIxOME1cQ4mscp6CH2SOnQ) & [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/oiksawas/fic-kid-gloves/) if that's your thing!

On a Friday, Caleb logically shouldn’t notice Mollymauk’s absence. He doesn’t have his class today, nor help out in it any day of the week, and their lunch times aren’t aligned. Regardless, he does like some kind of sixth sense, and on his lunch break, he stops by the office.

“Is Mollymauk here today?” he asks, in lieu of a proper greeting.

Ornna raises her eyebrows. She’s probably used to it by now. “Called in sick—he actually sounded it, too, I didn’t hear any giggling in the background.”

Caleb ignores the implications there, shaking the warmth out of his face, and runs a hand through his hair. Though part of his brain is insisting he just go to lunch, he asks, “Did he say what was wrong?”

“Nope,” says Ornna. “Yasha might know. Or you could talk to him yourself.”

“I will ask Yasha. Thank you.” He has no intentions of doing so. It’s normal to catch illnesses around here, and the absence had been unnerving, that’s all. He’ll go with that. Mollymauk will be back on Monday, surely, thinks Caleb as he spins away from the office.

“Have a good lunch!” Ornna calls.

A pang of guilt hits. “Thank you,” he says, again, over his shoulder. Over the low counter, she waves as he strides toward the door.

He proceeds to _not_ ask Yasha, even when she comes to drop off and then collect her class. She finds him anyway. Caleb is walking out—Nott having promised to get the car started and hang out there if he let her leave early—when he hears a stony voice call, “Caleb.”

Caleb hesitates before he turns. Yasha, effortless, jogs toward him from the opposite end of the hall—she doesn’t break a sweat, nor does her expression change. He, on the other hand, breaks out in a cold sweat at the approach. He likes and understands Yasha, but seeing a deathly pale, muscular, over six-foot woman dashing toward him inspires something like terror.

“Would you take this to Molly for me?”

He blinks several times before he processes the request. It’s… unexpected. Caleb can’t hold her gaze for too long, but he catches the odd look on her face, noticeable close up. He’s relieved when she presses something into his palm and he’s given an excuse to look down—he’s less relieved, however, when it turns out to be a lukewarm plastic container filled with—

“Is—is this soup?”

“Yes.”

Caleb nods, slow, and resists the urge to crack the lid open. “I don’t know where Mollymauk lives,” he points out instead.

“I do,” says Yasha, and then she rattles off the address.

“Um—” Something clicks in Caleb’s head. “If you do, why don’t you take it to him?”

Yasha shifts her gaze to the wall above his head. Caleb is very familiar with the ways people avoid eye contact, and she’s almost definitely looking at the peeling paint behind him. “I don’t want to catch whatever he did.”

“You are likely to anyway, though,” says Caleb. “We all work with germy children.” He frowns. “Am I—why am I the acceptable sacrifice here?”

“Don’t think about it too hard.” Yasha waits until his fingers have curled around the soup to drop her hands, then turns on her heel. Back to him, she lifts her hand and calls, “Good luck,” then disappears down the hall.

Caleb, in the middle of an empty hallway and desperate for sleep, stares at the container in his hands. He sighs. The address churns around his brain—lucky (or not so) he had a good memory. Otherwise, he’d just wait until Monday to deliver the soup. He’s still tempted, but he runs over his encounter with Ornna this afternoon. Curiosity wins out. As he’s passing the office, he mutters a goodbye to a typing Ornna and a pen-twirling Gustav, then heads brusquely out to the car.

“We’re taking a detour,” he tells Nott, and then zones out her complaints or possible lack thereof.

Mollymauk’s apartment complex is on the other side of town, so it takes some doing and some pulling over to check Google Maps to get there. It isn’t the nicest place in the world—or, well, town—but not the worst either.

Trepidation building, Caleb steps out of the car, soup in hand. Nott, without looking up from Candy Crush, says, “Don’t take too long.”

Had Yasha mentioned the room number? Caleb bites his cheek and racks his brain. 209, he thinks, but he’s not holding himself to it. He drums up a quick pros-cons list. The anxiety over talking to whoever may be in the main office outweighs that of knocking on a wrong door and fleeing, somehow, so he settles for 209.

He inhales, staring at the door. There are no exterior identification factors, so with a swelling feeling in his chest, Caleb lifts his fist and knocks twice. After a beat, a voice—definitely Mollymauk’s, if a little more nasal—calls, “Who is it?”

“Caleb. From work.” He winces.

The door clicks open in an instant. Mollymauk looks odd not wearing piercings (well, aside from two gold studs in each ear) or vivid colors. A pastel purple bathrobe is draped over him, tied loosely at the waist and sleeves rolled to the elbow. Caleb can’t tell if he’s wearing anything other than that and a sweat-stained T-shirt. He doesn’t know if he wants to know.

He studies what’s visible of Mollymauk’s arms instead of dwelling on it—he can see the tattoos more clearly than at work. A snake tail curls out onto his left hand, its writhing body surrounded by detailed flowers. On the other arm, peacock feathers disappear up his elbow and reappear short of his collarbone.

“Ah, Caleb,” says Mollymauk after another pause, pleasant, and Caleb’s gaze jumps back up, “are you here to mercy kill me? Because I think—” He’s cut off by a coughing fit. Caleb gives Mollymauk a wide berth while he rushes to cover his mouth—with his fist, nonetheless. What kind of elementary school employee is he? “I think that would be the only—” _cough, cough_ “—the only good reason for a visit now.”

“Not… exactly?” Caleb sticks out his arms, aware there’s still a good two feet of space between them. The soup sloshes around in its container. “Yasha told me to bring this to you.”

Mollymauk, eyes wide, takes it. “ _Oh_ , that behemoth of a saint. Saint of a behemoth.” A beat of silence. “Sorry, uh, very hyped up on cold medicine right now. Can’t remember if it was the drowsy kind or not.”

Caleb shrugs. “I won’t mention it to your students. Or Beau.”

“How benevolent,” says Mollymauk, reddish-brown eyes glinting. He pops open the soup lid and sighs. “If I’m not back by Monday, tell Yasha I—wait, I have a phone.” He considers, weighing the container in one hand and its lid in the other. “No, you know what, tell her I said thanks anyway.”

“Uh—okay?” says Caleb, giving a short nod. Mollymauk mirrors the nod. Then, with an uncharacteristic lack of dignity, he tips the container back against his lips and drinks straight from it.

Caleb hovers a few steps away from the doorway, unsure if he should stick around or tell Mollymauk to feel better soon and leave. The container is half-empty after a few stiff beats. With a swallow, Mollymauk lowers his head and wipes his mouth. Caleb is torn between nauseated and impressed. The conflict intensifies when Mollymauk erupts into coughs again, but apparently, some class lectures kick in, because he covers his mouth with the crook of his elbow this time.

Once he’s recovered, Mollymauk lifts his arm from his face and says, “Sorry to make you come all this way, dear—what can I do to repay you?” Despite his inability to stand up straight without coughing, Mollymauk seems sincere about this, supporting himself on the door frame so he can look at Caleb.

“Nein, nein, you do not have to—”

“I’d like to. I—I’ll do something for Yasha, too,” he adds after a beat, eyes widening. The sweat pooling on his skin has thickened, pinning his loose hair to his face and crawling down his throat. Caleb averts his gaze. “How about a tarot reading? I—” He cuts off with another series of coughs, growing deeper with each hack. “M’deck’s around here somewh—” Another fit.

“Don’t push yourself,” says Caleb, awkwardly patting Mollymauk’s shoulder with the very tips of his gloved fingers. As he’d told Yasha, they all worked around the same germs. He had the same—less, even—chances of catching something here as at work. “You can, er, ‘repay me’ when you feel better. Ah, I—I hope you do that, by the way. Get better, I mean, not—” He takes a deep breath and drops his hand. His face is burning. “Anyway. See you Monday?”

Mollymauk blinks, then smiles, wide but a little sheepish. “Mm, see you Monday. Hopefully.”

Caleb has to hit his head against the steering wheel multiple times, much to Nott’s concern, before he can muster up the strength to drive home.

+

As it works out, Mollymauk _is_ back by Monday. Caleb refrains from asking outright if he feels better when he passes him in the hall that morning, though he feels good enough to pat Caleb on the shoulder when he collects his class from the cafeteria. “Jester’ll try and convince you later,” he mutters, “so I should let you know she’s going to drag you to this week’s happy hour whether you like it or not.”

Caleb pushes aside the fact that Mollymauk’s face is _very_ close to his ear, enough that he can feel warm breath wash over his ear. “You could’ve told me this _not_ in front of the entirety of the upper grades, could you not have?”

“Nope!” says Mollymauk. Before Caleb can say anything else, Mollymauk has swept up the stairs, class trailing behind.

When Caleb walks back into the library, Nott narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t catch Molly’s cold?”

“Quite sure, ja,” says Caleb, rubbing at the side of his reddened face. He resists the urge to shrug off his coat—however warm he might be at the moment, the weight is still nice. Besides, he can always bust out the portable fans he hoards for the summer.

Nott makes a suspicious noise. Caleb ignores it and moves to sit and gather up his prep materials for Dolan’s class.

His peace doesn’t last for long. The door swings open not two minutes later, and in marches Jester, her fists balled up and pressing onto her hips. She smiles at Nott, who flashes a nervous look at Caleb. Jester hovers in the doorway for a moment—Caleb can feel her eyes on him even when he glances to either side as if looking for an out. Nothing sticks out.

“Hello, Jester,” he says, looking back down.

Jester huffs and strides across the room. Her hands hit the counter with a loud _wham_ , and Caleb resists flinching as her fingers splay across the wood. Nott’s eyes dart between Caleb and Jester like she’s watching a tennis match. If only it were that easy, thinks Caleb, shuffling Dolan’s class’ cards. When he lifts his gaze, Jester’s face is five inches from his. He leans back on reflex.

“Friday night. Four-thirty P.M. The Leaky Tap. You’ll come to our weekly staff happy hour,” says Jester, clearly injecting every ounce of force in her body into the words.

“That’s Rosh Hashanah.”

She falters, but only for an instant. “Sunday. I haven’t sent out the text notice yet, I can still edit it.”

Caleb sighs and shuts his binder. “You will not let this go, will you.”

“No!” Jester’s eyes narrow as she leans forward, in opposition with her shiny grin. Caleb scoots his chair back—this is a long way to go to convince him to get drunk one night every other month. At the motion, some determination fades from her eyes, and she steps back, sunny expression returning. “The Leaky Tap isn’t _that_ bad. Plus, you didn’t do anything this summer! With us, at least—”

“ _Nein_ , I didn’t do much,” says Caleb. He’d pined and read and reorganized his bookshelves and driven hours to lay flowers at his parents’ graves, but he doesn’t need to tell her that. He drums his fingers on the countertop and glances to the side. Nott quickly pretends to be doing something on her phone. “Fine. I will come.”

Jester takes another step back before she claps. “Great!” Her gaze flickers to Nott. “Would you like to come?”

“I like alcohol,” blurts Nott. Caleb shuts his eyes as she sputters out a tangle of excuses. She clears her throat, face pink, and says, slower, “Yes I would very much like to come.”

Jester squeals. “You’ll have _lots_ of fun,” she promises with a wink.

She turns and heads out, skipping footsteps echoing all the way out into the hall. Caleb stares firmly at his hibernating desktop. The bubbles dancing across the screen seem to mock him. He shakes it off—Nott is spinning in her chair again, the sound annoying but ignorable.

Caleb’s attention snaps back to the class he has in— _damn_ —five minutes. He flips through the pages in his lesson plans binder until he comes upon a student list; he scribbles down a couple new arrivals in pen, then marks another few students unable to check out. Sure, his computer system does that for him, but he likes it on paper, too.

He continues ignoring Nott as he flips over the piece of paper to draft a seating chart. He needs to make one for Mollymauk’s class, too, though that won’t be a priority until Wednesday.

And like clockwork, at thinking about doing something for Mollymauk’s class, Caleb’s mind conjures an image of him making a remark about it last week. He should be focusing on the seating chart at hand. Certainly not how Mollymauk’s purple and blue hair had looked curling over his angular face; nor the glint of his russet eyes in the soft amber afternoon light; nor the piercings close enough to his copper skin tone to be acceptable workplace attire; nor—

Caleb shakes himself. He’d driven his pen into the table.

“Are you okay?” asks Nott, closer than she had been a moment ago. “You went all, uh, fuzzy there—”

“Fine, fine.” Caleb waves her off. “Just—er—thinking about this seating chart.”

It’s not a complete lie, and Nott seems satisfied. She hums and murmurs, “You’re such a hard worker.”

Caleb wants to slam his head into the counter. That would look stupid, though, so he just shrugs and begins sketching out the tables.

+

The week comes and goes. On Sunday night, Caleb finds himself thinking that, for all her other quirks, Jester is right about the Leaky Tap—it’s not that bad. Since it’s a fixture of Zadash, Caleb has been in once or twice over the past few years, during which it has also passed through several owners and layouts. Now, it’s modern-styled but still nostalgic, tables lining the walls and a karaoke machine in one corner.

When Caleb and Nott walk in, Jester is already gesturing to the karaoke machine with her cocktail glass. Unsurprising. Around her sit Fjord, Beau, and Mollymauk, each with a drink of their own.

Fjord’s eyes jump up to them. He’s quick to wave them over, foam spilling over his hand. Caleb weaves around other patrons (not that many, but not that few, either), clutching his bag—and Nott—tight to either side.

Jester leaps to her feet as soon as they approach. “Hi Caleb and Nott, bye Caleb and Nott,” she says in a rush, pointing to her now emptied glass before she scurries across the room.

Fjord coughs, while Mollymauk and Beau snicker. “Howdy,” he says. “Jester’s covering us tonight—well, those of us who aren’t designated drivers.” He grins and raps on his mug. Up close, Caleb can see that it’s root beer.

“I think I will fall into that,” says Caleb. “Nott, do you—” She’s already followed Jester to the bar. “…I suppose that is a yes.”

Beau snorts into her bottle. “Gotta admire her priorities.”

“Not if you’re driving her home,” deadpans Caleb. “And also live with her.”

He hesitates, then takes the seat Jester had just been in. Her coat is draped across the back. Caleb leans forward to avoid brushing against it too much.

Mollymauk is mixing something bright into a martini glass. When he notices Caleb watching, he smiles and pops a maraschino cherry on top. “Was a mixologist in college—among other things.”

“Don’t try to be cryptic, dude,” says Beau, rolling her eyes.

“Fine, but just remember you asked.” He takes a sip, hums, and then adds, “I worked at a ren faire seven summers in a row.” Fjord chokes on his drink. Mollymauk grins. “That’s actually how I met Yasha.”

“What about me?”

Caleb almost jumps out of his chair. Yasha is hovering behind them, scarred eyebrow arched and braids pushed away from her face. No less than four other tables have stopped mid-conversation to look at her. She brushes the attention off—or maybe doesn’t notice—as she waves, a little awkwardly looking around the table.

Fjord coughs. “Hey, Yasha,” he says, and she nods, short.

Gesturing as if to say _go on_ , Yasha takes a couple large steps over to the nearest table, which she steals an empty chair from. She drags it over between Beau and Fjord. Without bothering to turn the chair around, Yasha sits, arms folding over the back. Beau’s bottle drops from her mouth with a loud _pop_.

“You’re drooling,” Mollymauk whispers to her. Face tinged red, Beau wipes her mouth. Mollymauk smiles jovially at Yasha, spreading his arms and tipping back in his chair. Caleb is seized with the urge to kick him back into place like he would a child in his library. “Good evening, Yasha dear. I was just talking about you.”

“Yes, I heard,” says Yasha, mismatched eyes flickering over the crowd. Caleb tracks her gaze to the bar, where Nott is downing shot after shot and Jester is cheering her on. Oh dear. “The ren faires?”

Mollymauk snaps his fingers. “I was a sword juggler,” he tells the rest of the table. “Yasha was a spear thrower. I tried to breathe fire once, but it—uh—didn’t go so well.”

Yasha cracks her knuckles. “If by ‘didn’t go so well’ you mean I had to drive through rush hour to the emergency room because you set your hair on fire and threw up, then yes, fire breathing _didn’t go so well_.”

Fjord chuckles. Beau snorts into her beer, but her eyes aren’t on either Mollymauk or Yasha; they’ve settled on Caleb, flashing with worry. Caleb forces a smile, brushing off her gaze, and gauges the exits. It’s not like he can’t just walk away from the conversation if the fire talk continues. It doesn’t seem like it will, though, so Caleb waits it out.

“That’s the first real conversation we had, though, so isn’t it worth it?” Mollymauk drowns the rest of his drink, his smile never faltering.

“We’d had conversations before that,” says Yasha, frowning. “Mostly you trying to practice your shitty people skills.”

Mollymauk clasps a hand to his heart. “Dear, you wound me.”

“She’s right,” mutters Fjord. Mollymauk’s mock-offended gaze jumps to him, and Fjord holds up his hands. “Hey, I ain’t saying you don’t have good intentions, just that your delivery sucks ass.”

“Yeah,” says Beau, nodding and scrunching up her face sagely.

At that, Mollymauk bursts out laughing. “Fuck you, Beau, or should I say _pot_?”

Caleb can’t help a small smile (though it isn’t like _he_ has room to talk about social skills). Beau rolls her eyes and takes a drink. Fjord reaches across Yasha to pat her shoulder—she, being Beau, shakes it off.

“ _Anyways,”_ says Mollymauk. His face is pink—maybe the lighting, maybe the alcohol, maybe the conversation. Maybe all of the above. “Those, my friends, are things you do to pay for college. Yet I’m still in debt.”

“Beau almost turned to being a sugar baby,” says Caleb.

Fjord barks out a startled laugh, while Mollymauk shrugs and nods approvingly into his empty glass. Beau’s cheeks darken. She wads up a series of napkins from the center of the table and hurls them at Caleb one by one. “Shut up! I told you that in an extreme moment of weakness!”

Caleb flings his hands up to cover his face, but Beau runs out of napkins after a minute. He keeps his arms up anyway, just in case. Yasha laughs softly. “Molly did the same thing. He was halfway to posting an ad on Craigslist.” Mollymauk spreads his arms as if to say _so?_ “I don’t know how you survived.”

He flashes her a sharp-toothed grin. “I had you, didn’t I?”

At the same time, Beau processes Yasha’s words and her lip curls back in a snarl. “C’mon, don’t lump me in with _Molly_.”

Fjord leans into his hand, letting his mug clink back onto the table. He glances over his shoulder—Caleb does, too, just to make sure Nott hasn’t passed out. (She hasn’t. She _has_ accumulated a questionable amount of whiskey, though.)

“I don’t remember the worst thing Jes did in college,” says Fjord. He bites his lip and stares at the table, flushing. “Well. Uh. There was one collective thing, but I really don’t—”

“We’re baring our souls to you here,” says Mollymauk, eyes wide and pleading, and Caleb has to look away. “And this is how you repay us?”

Yasha nods slowly. Beau snorts. Fjord lowers his head into his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, and arises a moment later. “Fine, fine, but I really wish I was drunk for this.”

“We’ll pretend you were,” says Yasha, patting his shoulder. Beau nods, but her smirk tells a different story.

“Thank you kindly,” says Fjord, flat. “Okay, so—so there was this, uh, this book—”

“Yasha!” He’s cut off with a familiar squeal. As Jester appears behind them out of seemingly thin air, her arms come to fall around Fjord’s shoulders. Fjord, whose face is beyond relieved but also very startled, reaches up to squeeze her hands—Caleb’s gaze falls on their identical silver rings, and his lips twitch into a subconscious smile. “You should’ve come said hello! And gotten a drink!”

Yasha scratches her neck. “I drove here.”

“For God’s sake, have any of you heard of Uber?” says Mollymauk, sounding genuinely irritated.

Caleb looks down at his tattered coat. “Do I look like I have money to spare?”

“Stacking gas prices are higher than stacking Uber prices,” Beau says, then frowns. “‘s actual science. Probably.”

“Wouldn’t it be math?” mutters Fjord.

Jester pats his shoulders. “Well, whatever! Yasha, do you want to sing karaoke with me?”

“No thank you.”

“Aww.” Jester pouts and turns her doe eyes around the table—they land on Beau, whom she bats her eyelashes at. “Hey, Beau, you’re looking—”

“Nope,” says Beau immediately. “You’d have to pay me and/or get me a _lot_ drunker if you wanna make me sing. Perfectly fuckin’ comfortable here.” She spreads out, one elbow back on the back of her chair—which, Caleb notices, is a little closer to Yasha’s than it had been before. He’s not sure which of them had moved.

Mollymauk snickers. “I’m sure.” Ignoring Beau’s flushed glare and Jester’s traveling gaze, he downs another drink Caleb hadn’t noticed him mix (or take). It looks suspiciously like the next table’s row of shots. “Oh, that’s vile,” he mutters, then he gets to his feet and says, “Hey, Jester, I’ll sing with you.”

“Oh!” Jester’s eyes light up. “Of course, come on—”

She drops Fjord’s hands and skips around Caleb’s chair—internally, Caleb breathes a sigh of relief. Mollymauk smiles and holds out his arm, which Jester takes, and together they prance up to the karaoke podium. Nott is making her clumsy way back from the bar—she glances up at Caleb, who scratches his neck and stands.

“I believe that is my cue,” he announces, “to sit in a corner and pretend like I don’t know any of you.”

“I’m with you,” says Yasha. “I have heard Molly sing.”

Fjord frowns. “He doesn’t strike me as a bad singer.”

“He isn’t. That’s the problem.”

While Beau and Fjord mull this over, Caleb and Yasha make their way to an empty table on the opposite side of the bar. Well, Yasha walks right over, whereas Caleb hangs back to watch Nott clamber up into Mollymauk’s vacated seat. She shifts in it every few seconds. That’s not an indication of anything, though, since her feet barely touch the ground.

When she finally looks in his direction, Caleb mouths, _Okay?_

Nott flashes a pointy smile and nods. The conversation at the table seems to have picked up again, even as just a back-and-forth between Beau and Fjord. Good enough, thinks Caleb, turning to join Yasha.

He unzips his bag as he does. He’s gone drinking with Jester before, so he’s taken to carrying at least one book with him whether he intends on staying sober or not. Tonight, it’s the only one he’d been able to grab before Nott had dragged him outside by the belt— _Maurice_. The spine is bent and the text is faded from the thirteen years he’s had it, but it’s readable (as evidenced by the worn spine from the number of times he’s already read it).

Yasha begins tapping at the counter when he’s four pages in. His entire body is filled with dread, though that’s more from Jester and Mollymauk perusing the karaoke machine than Yasha’s presence. The latter is actually calming. He glances up to see her watching him.

“Is there something you would like to ask me?”

“Yes,” says Yasha, blinking. “I wanted to ask how the soup delivery went.”

Caleb fidgets with the page corner, torn between shutting it and his repulsion toward dogearing. It’s not like he won’t remember the page number, he thinks, giving it another glance just in case. “Mollymauk didn’t tell you?”

Yasha’s lips quirk. “He did. He seems to think he’s scared you away with what he’s like when he’s sick.”

Caleb pauses. That would explain Monday’s stiffness. And Wednesday. And Thursday, when he was leaving the staff lounge as Caleb was walking in. “Not at all. I was just—I was unprepared for the situation. Why did you give _me_ the soup?”

Before Yasha can answer, the first notes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” sound over the bar’s rumble of conversation. Caleb is torn between laughing, crying, and running across the bar to take Nott by the scruff of her neck and make an expeditious retreat. He opts for none of the above—instead, he drops his forehead to the table. Over time, he’s been forced to pub hop with Beau more times than is healthy, especially for his already thin respect of certain songs.

“Yasha?”

“Yes?”

“If I’m dead by the end of tonight, please do not let anyone put a stupid quote on my gravestone.”

She doesn’t reply to that. Caleb sits still as Jester and Mollymauk’s voices seep into him. He’s heard Jester’s before—it’s decent, if pitchy and untrained. Mollymauk’s is—just as Yasha had said. Good. Excellent. Near perfect. He doesn’t understand why that’s a bad thing until he lifts his head a fraction of an inch and sees everyone in the bar shifting their attention to that corner, the focus of their dumbstruck gazes obvious (it’s a pretty even split between Jester and Mollymauk, actually, but the more affectionate gazes are directed at the currently-singing Mollymauk). Yasha sighs.

Their voices meld beautifully; they obviously belong to drunk karaoke performers in a bar, but _good_ drunk karaoke performers in a bar. Setting a high standard. Caleb lowers his head again to keep from meeting Mollymauk’s gaze, which is flitting across all the patrons’ faces. Jester seems delighted by his voice, which just makes her sing louder.

They hit the ballad—Caleb assumes Jester will take over, but instead, it’s Mollymauk, carrying the tune in a way that doesn’t shatter eardrums. Seamlessly, he flows into the opera. Despite the booming noise earlier, the bar is quiet and still aside from the music and singing.

Caleb isn’t surprised to find goosebumps on his arms. He sits up and glances at Yasha’s face. She smiles wearily, eyes on Mollymauk and Jester.

Well, Caleb can’t avoid it. He looks over to see Mollymauk and Jester facing each other, each clutching a sparkly purple microphone with identical dizzy grins. Even the bartender has frozen mid-pour to watch them. If there were spotlights in the machine, Caleb is sure they’d be fixed on the two performers.

Not that they need them to capture the entire room’s attention. Mollymauk pauses for breath at the guitar riffs—his gaze darts across the room, catching Caleb’s. His grin widens. As the lyrics pop up again, he takes Jester’s hand and spins her. Both are laughing through their next lines, but it doesn’t murder the quality—there’s no fumbling, no overcompensation. Caleb glances at Fjord to see him nodding with pride.

He wonders if he’s wearing the same expression, then quickly tells himself not to wonder. An explosion of sound sends him upright—Mollymauk wrapping up the rock section, backed by guitar, as Jester backs away to give him center stage. Mollymauk inhales as the guitar takes over and fades. The sweat on his forehead stands out under the low wall lights, sticking his hair to his skin the same way it had last week.

In a few blinks, he’s softly concluded the song. Jester beams as the music comes to a slow halt—and he smiles back, a little clumsy on his feet now that he’s not putting on a show. Isn’t he always, though, in some way? Caleb wonders on that as Mollymauk’s eyes wander across the room again.

There’s a prolonged beat of silence before Fjord gets to his feet and claps as loud as he can. The rest of the bar soon follows—Yasha whoops, while Caleb settles for a quiet, respectful golf clap.

Mollymauk takes Jester’s hand, and in unison, they bow, beaming from ear to ear. The bar’s radio comes back on, and Caleb wants to groan when ABBA replaces Queen, hoping Jester doesn’t get any more ideas. She doesn’t—she flounces over to Fjord, stealing a sip of his root beer. Mollymauk sidles up to the bar instead. Caleb watches the bartender pass him another cocktail—“on the house,” he thinks he hears.

Then Mollymauk is tossing himself into a chair between Caleb and Yasha, not spilling a single drop of his drink. He sighs and props a boot up onto the bar.

Yasha rolls her eyes. “Have fun?”

“Very much,” he says, breathy. He twirls a small straw, blending various shades of purple together. “Haven’t sung in front of people in ages. I’m glad Jester asked.”

Caleb very privately feels the same. Mollymauk’s gaze flickers to him like he hears that, somehow, and his mouth tips upward around his next sip. Yasha looks between them and huffs. Getting to her feet, she mutters something in—Icelandic? Caleb’s mind runs over the word— _idiots,_ he thinks it is.

He’s a little offended, but not too much to practice a language he’s admittedly rusty in. _“Buy Beau a drink,”_ he says.

Yasha raises her eyebrows and then, smirking, stalks away, presumably to do just that. Caleb glances back to his book. He’s aware Mollymauk is still staring—quiet time isn’t an option, then. With a soft throat clear, Caleb tilts his head in a silent question, and Mollymauk’s eyes drop to his cocktail.

Face pink again, Mollymauk toys with his straw. “I didn’t know you spoke Icelandic.”

“I do,” says Caleb unnecessarily. He fiddles with the fraying corner of _Maurice_ ’s front cover.

“How many languages _do_ you speak?”

“Well—English, German, Icelandic,” he mutters, sticking out a finger for each. Caleb counts physical objects constantly, sure, but he’d never thought to count languages. “Yiddish, Hebrew, basic Spanish and Mandarin—can’t read Chinese very well, though—oh, and Latin—”

“Latin?” Mollymauk sets his drink aside and leans forward, one leg folding over the other. “All right. Say something in Latin.”

Fixing his gaze on a water stain on the ceiling, Caleb says, _“Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori.”_ Quoting Virgil isn’t a hobby of his, but he supposes he can make this exception.

“Hm. No clue what that means, but at least it’s pretty.” Mollymauk’s elbow press into the table. “Do you speak Irish, by any chance?”

“Not a word.” Okay, maybe the accent isn’t as fake as Caleb had thought.

Mollymauk clears his throat and picks up his drink again. His cheeks seem to darken as he says, eyes down, “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.”

“I don’t want to think about how that’s spelled,” says Caleb, nose scrunching. He’d tried to learn Welsh once, then happened upon the longest place name in Europe and almost passed out. He can’t imagine the other Celtic languages are much better.

Snorting into his cocktail, Mollymauk lifts his head. “Awful, isn’t it? I can’t speak that much, just a few phrases here and there.” He quirks his head. That flush is still across his face—Caleb’s still not sure what from—but a mischievous glint enters his eyes. “I’m having fun now, though. What about Bengali? Tagalog?”

“No to the second.” Caleb keeps tugging at the book cover—it’s grounding, methodical. Relaxing. “A little of the first, but only what Nott knows—hello, goodbye, the like.”

“Oh,” says Mollymauk, straightening up, “is she desi too?”

“Half Bangladeshi,” says Caleb. A small smile crosses his face at getting to talk about Nott—he resists the urge to offer to show Mollymauk the photo albums sometime. “Her biological parents gave her up at birth, though, and she was in a home in London until my—until my parents adopted her.”

Mollymauk hums. “That’d explain why you don’t look anything alike, then.” Caleb snorts and nods. “I don’t actually speak much Bengali either—my mom’s parents were from Tripura, but she, uh, died when I was a kid. And—well, she didn’t get to teach me much.”

A soft, uncomfortable laugh as Mollymauk rubs the side of his neck and takes another drink. Caleb swallows an apology back—they always seemed so insincere to receive, and he can’t imagine giving one would sound any better. The stiff moment passes when Mollymauk shakes himself and leans back forward.

“Tagalog, on the other hand,” continues Mollymauk, fingers tapping on the side of the glass. “My dad’s family is Filipino. They’d been living in Ireland for generations by the time he moved to the States, but he still knew enough to teach me—again, though, I’ve forgotten a lot. Bad brain, y’know?” Oh, how Caleb knows. “Anyway… hihintayin kita.”

Caleb startles at the switch—of both language and tone, which has gone soft and almost… he stops himself before he can think  _adoring_ , because no, not to him. Not _from Mollymauk_ to _him_. “What—um,” he says, because Mollymauk is studying him in a simultaneously intense and tender way. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing important,” says Mollymauk, smile not even a little convincing. Above them, one ABBA song segues into another. Mollymauk seems grateful at the switch—he gets to his feet, sets his drink down, and holds out a hand. “Mr. Widogast, would you like to dance?”

Caleb stares at the outstretched hand for one second, two, three; on the fourth, his eyes rise to Mollymauk’s face, which has gone calculatingly blank. Or maybe Caleb’s own brain is obfuscating things. “Would—hm?” Eloquent, he thinks, biting his cheek.

“Would you like to dance?” repeats Mollymauk, smile returning. “I was thinking I could see you as a waltzer, and, well, we wouldn’t want to miss out on everyone else’s fun, right?”

He gestures across the room. Several couples have gotten to their feet, doing clumsy little dances. Yasha and Beau, Caleb is somewhat disappointed to see, are not among them—Fjord and Jester are, however, swaying gently and giggling with their foreheads together. Caleb finds Yasha’s hair at the bar, Beau’s smaller form right next to her. Nott is still sitting at their table, cradling an empty shot glass.

Caleb’s throat goes very, very dry. “I—”

“You, um—you don’t have to if you don’t want,” says Mollymauk, quick, but Caleb is already standing.

Yasha’s eyes flicker to them. Silent, she raises her glass, and Caleb looks at his feet. “Ja, sure, I would—I would like to dance,” he says, managing to keep his voice steady.

Mollymauk is silent for several beats, long enough for regret to sink in, then he reaches out and takes Caleb’s hand. “Take A Chance On Me” is blaring—it’s not a bad song, just a loud one. Caleb’s eyes drift to Mollymauk’s face; he’s still smiling, eyes wide and expression open again. Not a solid, hard mask, but one nonetheless.

Caleb’s gaze drops again as he’s reminded he hasn’t danced in over a decade and is out of practice. Jesus. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters—his boot comes dangerously close to trodding on Mollymauk’s toes.

“Quite all right,” says Mollymauk, breezy. “Here, how about this—”

He shifts, moving Caleb’s free hand—dangling limply at one side—to rest just above his waist. Mollymauk’s own hand settles on Caleb’s shoulder. His bravado falters for a second but returns before long, confident smile twisting his face.

“And just, ah—”

He shifts back, letting Caleb lead. Caleb feels like they’re at a middle school dance. A solid foot of space between them, they sway uncomfortably, neither a good enough dancer to try anything else.

He’s becoming his students, he realizes in horror.

Caleb pushes that aside and inhales. His hand tightens on Mollymauk’s—the sensation dulls the already-quieting music, giving him something to focus on. Eyes sticking to Mollymauk’s forehead, he lets a smile matching Mollymauk’s creep across his face.

“Why, I think he’s got it,” says Mollymauk, gaze tender under the warm light.

Caleb ducks his head as his smile widens—he’s a decent enough mimic, and muscle memory has to kick in at some point. His hair falls forward to cloud his vision. A step later, Mollymauk’s hand jumps from Caleb’s shoulder to his cheek, brushing the loose strands of hair away and tucking them behind Caleb’s ear. There’s a beat where they both freeze, Caleb’s head up again and Mollymauk’s hand returning to his shoulder.

They exchange awkward smiles and pick up the pace. The easy sways, even taking in how opposed they are to the fast music, are comforting. Caleb grows used to how his feet are supposed to weave, how his body is supposed to tilt every few seconds. They’re not winning any competitions soon, but they aren’t tripping over each other anymore.

The song fades into another. Mollymauk flashes his teeth and lets Caleb’s hand go to take a full step back. Caleb’s hands hover in the air for a full moment after, before he remembers to put them down.

“Thanks for the dance,” says Mollymauk, bending into a half-bow.

“Ah—” Caleb remembers post-dance etiquette is a thing too. He lowers his head as Mollymauk straightens back up. “You as well.”

Mollymauk hums and glances across his face. He reaches up, hand cupping Caleb’s cheek, and Caleb blinks and leans subconsciously into it. With a quick motion, Mollymauk lays a kiss on Caleb’s forehead. Caleb’s heart stutters in his chest. He opens his mouth to say something—a clumsy _thank you_ hovers on his tongue, but before he can come up with something more intelligent, Mollymauk pats his cheek and sweeps over to Beau and Yasha.

That’s—okay. That’s not anything, Caleb tells himself; Mollymauk is a tactile person who’s kissed Yasha’s forehead the same way more times than Caleb has bothered to count. It doesn’t stop his heart from pounding as fast as a hummingbird’s resting rate.

He hurries back to his abandoned seat and picks up his book. He gives up ten minutes later, unable to focus on the letters.

Nott wanders over to the table after another half hour or so. “Can we go home now?” she asks sheepishly, a red wood-textured imprint on her cheek.

“Of course,” says Caleb, already dreading the hangover Nott will have tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm mostly celtic so i have to mock irish and welsh at every possibility. also i wrote the original draft of the dance scene a good few weeks before ep 24 and then liam decided to kill me by letting caleb dance in canon
> 
> translations:  
> \+ Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori: Love conquers all; let us yield to love (there are a few different translations but that's the gist -- it's from virgil's _eclogues_ )  
> \+ Tá mo chroí istigh ionat: I love you -- literally "my heart is inside you"  
> \+ Hihintayin kita: I will wait for you
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	3. part i, chapter iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb is fine and not at all ill (but not really).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for emetophobia throughout this chapter -- it's kinda scattered throughout but not too graphic (just like, general stomach flu symptoms & casual mentions of throwing up)
> 
> a semi-related note: my life is pretty hectic at the moment -- i'm going to try my best to stay on track with editing chapters and getting them up, and will definitely say something if i feel things will get sporadic, but just a heads up! also b/c of this, i haven't been able to reply to the comments on the last chapter, but i wanted to say i appreciate all of them <333
> 
> anyway, enjoy!!

Caleb is fine.

Perfectly healthy, in fact, and not coming down with anything. Sure, he’d dry heaved into the kitchen sink this morning before Nott woke up, but that didn’t mean anything. Even if he _has_ caught a minor bug (which he’s not admitting he has), he works at a school. To him, germs are a form of currency. So despite Nott’s concerned looks at his disheveled state—which she should be used to by now, really, he’s known her almost twenty years—and the unsettled feeling in his stomach, he plants his foot and drives them to school.

Mollymauk is hovering by the office when he and Nott walk in. Why wouldn’t he be? He leans back from chatting with Ornna, blinking across the room—his gaze lingers on Caleb, who scratches his neck.

“I told him he shouldn’t go to work today,” mutters Nott.

Caleb glares at her. “And _I_ told _you_ I feel fine.”

“Well, you sure don’t look it,” says Mollymauk, cheerful as ever. He steps forward, crowding uncomfortably close, and presses his cool palm against Caleb’s forehead. Caleb stares at his boots. Oh, look, they aren’t tied. “Hm.”

“Hm?” repeat Caleb and Nott in unison.

“Nothing, dears.” The smile returns. Mollymauk steps back from Caleb, who finds himself staring at where dark brown roots have crept back into Mollymauk’s purple hair. Blinking, Mollymauk follows his gaze up before his face clicks with understanding. “Ah—I haven’t gotten a chance to touch ‘em up yet. Yasha and I usually do that together.”

“I see.” Nott’s eyes burn into Caleb, so he tightens his jacket around himself and says, “Good chat.” And then he stalks toward the nearest staircase.

Nott mutters something—to Mollymauk or herself, Caleb isn’t sure—and scurries after him, short legs beating against the carpet to keep pace with him. He’s not as tall as certain other co-workers, but he’s over a foot taller than her. Eyes on the floor, he ignores a festering headache (those are weekly occurrences, no big deal) and the fact that he’s not looking where he’s going. Which leads to him walking right into a solid mass he glances up to recognize as Fjord.

“Whoa there,” he says, frowning and catching Caleb by the shoulders. Caleb’s face goes even warmer than it already is. He keeps his gaze on his shoes. “Hey, you don’t—”

“Ja, ja, I look like I’m a foot in the grave.” Caleb shakes the hands off—he fights off the guilt when the crease between Fjord’s eyebrows deepens. “I will be fine. Just having a bit of a sore—” He doesn’t know what he intends to say is sore. At the moment, it seems to be everything. He ends the sentence there.

“Maybe you should lie down in the staff lounge?”

“No thank you.” Caleb ducks under Fjord’s arm and heads toward the stairs. He almost trips getting to the landing—his shoelace has flopped out. With an aggravated mutter of “Verdammter Schnürsenkel,” he kneels to tighten them up.

Perhaps he should take that as a bad omen, but Caleb ignores the sign from fate and continues downstairs. No one else gets in his way, though this could be because the only other staff members in the lower story are Desmond, the music teacher, and the chefs. One could count Nott, but all she does is look beseechingly up while Caleb tosses his things down.

It’s when he almost throws up while talking to Fjord’s kindergarteners that Caleb realizes he _might_ have a problem. He swallows, fighting the tug in his throat. In a rare moment of relenting control (even to himself), Caleb decides his new fairy tale retellings can wait. He shoves the series cart toward the students—partially because it’s the first thing in his line of sight, which in turn is because Nott had been steering it around and pulling _Animorphs_ books out before the class arrived. He recalls her comments about the covers and shudders.

Nott flashes her wide eyes in Caleb’s direction when he heads back to his desktop. She doesn’t ask. Caleb doesn’t volunteer anything, because he’s pretty sure that if he tries to talk more, he’ll vomit, and he doesn’t want to get bile on anything in his library.

Nott handles the checking out. Caleb nods in thanks once the class has filed out, Fjord leading them out like a bunch of ducklings. Once he’s sure no one is in the hall, Caleb covers his mouth, mutters, “I am going to go see Jester now,” and flees.

The hallways are quiet and empty, in a rare moment of peace outside the individual classrooms. As he passes the gym, Caleb can hear a particularly rambunctious PE class. He’s not sure becoming gym buddies with Yasha has helped Beau become a more effective teacher, but he brushes that aside and ducks into the office. He says a short hello to Ornna and Gustav and shoves into Jester’s room.

Caleb doesn’t process her greeting, though he’s sure she gives one—instead, he collapses right onto the cot.

“Wow, you must be feeling _really_ bad,” says Jester. Caleb makes a muffled, unintelligible (even to himself) sound in reply. “What’s your problem?”

Caleb sits up enough to glare. “Did Fjord not tell you about my stairwell incident this morning?”

“Nope.” Jester slumps down onto the cot beside him, patting him on the back of the head. It seems like she’s restraining herself from stroking his hair. Caleb doesn’t think he would actually mind, though that could be the nausea talking. “So what are you dealing with?”

“…Stomach flu,” admits Caleb, turning back into the cot. The pillow is soft, not itchy like ones in real hospital beds. “Almost threw up in front of Fjord’s class too. He and his students have seen a lot of me today, ja?”

His accent feels thicker than usual, the English clumsy on his mouth. To make up for it, he lifts his head up off the pillow and is faced with Jester leaning toward his face. Her elbows perch on her thighs and her round eyes go even wider. “Why did you even come to school? You don’t have to get perfect attendance, Caleb—”

Never mind, Caleb regrets everything. He burrows his head into the pillow to keep from looking her in the face. Maybe if he pretends to have fallen asleep, she’ll take pity on him. He evens his breathing out, shuts his eyes, and—

A finger indents the back of his head. “ _Cay_ -leb.”

Fuck. He tilts his head up. “My substitutes never actually follow the notes and I show up the next day to find my library in a state of ruin.”

“Oh,” says Jester, quiet. Caleb is turning his face back into the cot when she adds cheerily, “I can call my friend Cali for you! She’s really good and really nice and I promise she won’t destroy your beautiful library and will listen to you.”

Caleb’s hands twitch. “Thank you, Jester, but for now can I please just sleep and not think about this.”

Jester pats the top of his head. “Do you want any medicine?” she asks, but her voice is already turning to cotton.

Caleb squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he’s facing the ceiling, and the next thing his eyes find is a beady-eyed face right over his. His gut reaction is to yelp and scramble to one side. Unfortunately, that’s toward the floor, and as he tumbles onto the tile with a crash, his stomach flops unpleasantly. He brings a warm weight with him, legs tangled in wool.

“Sorry sorry sorry!” shouts Nott, leaping to her feet from the folding chair she’s dragged over.

Tilting his head back, Caleb kicks a heavy fleece blanket—patterned with little lavender rabbit silhouettes—off his legs. He glances around, the urge to retch again rising. Jester no longer seems to be in the room, nor Shakäste. Caleb’s lidded gaze finds the clock next to the cabinets. Half past three.

He rubs his burning forehead and swallows again. “Nott, will you hand me the garbage can, please?”

She obliges, still apologizing under her breath—at least, Caleb assumes she continues, since he can’t hear her after a minute.

(When he’s able to lift his head, he finds that Jester has left a bottle of ibuprofen on the counter. He takes it and leaves her a sticky note reading “Sorry about your garbage can” in return.)

+

Caleb, swathed in blankets, is sure of one thing: he does not want to get up. When he hears someone knock, he’s content to assume it’s a residue of whatever fuzzy dreams he’d been having. He tugs the heaviest blanket over his mouth and sighs. He’s almost drifted off again when—

 _Knock, knock._ Louder this time. He snaps out of his sleepy delirium.

Hoping it’s just a solicitor or a key-forgetting Nott (though he’s not sure what time she’d left), Caleb rises. He lets the blankets come with him. His shirt has a stain down the front and his shorts are sticking to him with sweat, so it’ll do for now. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he nudges Frumpkin off his slippers to toe them on. Frumpkin _mrow_ s in protest, which Caleb ignores as best he can—or as well as Frumpkin lets him.

He heads toward the living room pursued by a lunging Frumpkin, claws grazing his ankles. Caleb winces as teeth join the sharp nails.

“Scheißkerl—get off—blöder Kater—”

Frumpkin’s claws sink into Caleb’s leg just as he’s reached the door. Swearing under his breath, Caleb leans down to wrench Frumpkin off with as much force as he can muster. One hand on his cat, he reaches up to grasp the doorknob with the other.

It isn’t a salesperson. Nor is it Nott.

Instead, Mollymauk, with bright pink hair and a thermos in his hands, stands on the porch. He looks just about to say something when he takes in the scene—a blanket-wrapped Caleb shaking a cat off his foot and cussing in a variety of languages.

Caleb freezes. His mouth falls shut. He pleads for his fever, or any higher power, to strike him down right here and now.

Nothing takes mercy on him, however. Mollymauk seems unphased, which might be more concerning than how this looks from the outside. “Hello,” he says brightly, holding out the thermos. “I brought you soup.”

Caleb’s brain takes several seconds to catch up with the words. When it does, his already-warm face heats. “Oh,” he says, and immediately wants to hit himself for it. “Er—thank you?” He remembers Frumpkin is still attached to his leg and plucks him off, muttering, “Bother someone else.”

“Simply returning the favor.”

Caleb straightens up to take the soup. It’s still warm— _very_ warm. A pleasant smell wafts through the entryway; it smells, Caleb thinks, like home. It’s a small miracle he’s sweated out the fever enough to not blurt that out.

He’s snapped back to the present by Mollymauk coaxing Frumpkin toward him with little cooing sounds. Frumpkin’s tail swishes as he studies the newcomer, golden eyes unblinking. With a small grin, Mollymauk leans down and offers his hand. Frumpkin sniffs it, ears flicking back for an instant—then, in a rare show of affection, he bumps his head against Mollymauk’s knuckles. Mollymauk looks delighted.

Caleb smiles and lowers the soup to his waist. He means to ask what kind it is, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, “Would you like to come in?”

He wants to smack himself again for a beat, but Mollymauk pauses in scratching behind Frumpkin’s ears to return the smile. “I’d love to.”

“It’s—it’s messy,” says Caleb, kind of wanting to retract his offer because it had just slipped out but also not wanting to kill that soft smile. “A. Um. Just a forewarning.”

“If you don’t want me to—”

“No, no—” Caleb waves his hands. Frumpkin, the traitor, seems to smirk at him. “I also might pass out again, but—you know how to let yourself out. I assume.” The flush climbs to his ears.

Mollymauk laughs. Caleb isn’t so far gone that he’ll compare it to a bell’s chime or something so cliche, but it _is_ a lovely sound. “It’s fine. Why are you up, by the way? Doesn’t Nott live here?”

“In theory,” says Caleb, stepping aside to shut the door, and Mollymauk laughs again. He gathers Frumpkin up in his arms and nestles him like an infant. Even a foot or so away, Caleb can hear the purring. He glares back at the smug yellow eyes, then says, “She went to go buy… medicine. Lots of medicine. Don’t remember when. Things keep getting fuzzy.”

“Caleb, dear, just how long have you been suppressing this?”

He opens his mouth to answer and realizes he doesn’t know how to. He could go with the denial route, but that doesn’t even work on himself anymore, and he’d have to think about the actual answer. So Caleb stays silent and cradles the soup between his hands like it’s a precious antique.

Deflection has always been his favored method of communication. As he steps into the living room, pointing out the couch and recliner, he mutters, “What type of soup is this?”

“Oh, good old chicken.” Mollymauk makes himself at home on the couch. Caleb hadn’t bothered to cover the dubious stains, nor the chunks Frumpkin and age have taken out of it, but Mollymauk doesn’t seem to mind. “Took a while to find a good kosher recipe, and I didn’t taste test, so I hope it’s all right.”

Caleb cracks open the lid. “It—it looks good, so—” Wait. “You remembered I keep kosher?”

“You’ve turned down more than one staff lunch,” says Mollymauk. He lifts Frumpkin up beneath the forelegs—Frumpkin goes along with it.

“He clawed the hell out of my arm the last time I tried that. Satansbraten,” mutters Caleb, narrowing his eyes. “And—thank you.”

“Like I said. Repaying a favor.” Mollymauk bounces Frumpkin and kisses his nose—and doesn’t get claws dragged across his face. Caleb supposes he can’t blame anyone, even his own pet, for preferring Mollymauk over him. “I love your cat.”

Caleb doesn’t bother replying. He whisks into the kitchen to dig around in the cupboards for a bowl. As soon as he sets the thermos down and opens one, he’s reminded that Nott had rearranged his kitchen when she’d moved in. She’d cited boredom—he’s sure it was at least partially to find anything she could use as a subtle weapon. It hadn’t worked out in his favor; the only thing he’s made since is ramen, so he has no clue where anything is. He’s about to grab his phone and text her, but his phone is in his bedroom. Well.

In the living room, Mollymauk is quiet while Caleb rummages through several rows of eating utensils. His fingers glide around plates—he’s not finding a bowl yet, but he does find a knife in the cupboard they had been in a few weeks ago.

After a loud series of clinking sounds, Mollymauk calls, “Having trouble, darling?”

“Some,” grits out Caleb.

He opens a drawer—and finally, eureka: a row of bowls is inside. Caleb grabs one at random, on the smaller side. That’s fine; he’s not sure his stomach is well enough yet for a gigantic meal. He fills it, grabs one of the many spoons he’d found, and walks back into the living room, blankets trailing behind him.

Mollymauk’s legs are tucked up onto the couch as he rocks a purring Frumpkin. “I might steal your cat.”

“You know what, feel free.”

The couch is closest, so he takes a seat beside Mollymauk, who straightens up. Muttering what he can remember of a blessing into the bowl, Caleb stirs to disperse some of the steam before he takes a tentative swallow.

His eyes widen. “Oh, damn. Very good.”

“I’m glad!” says Mollymauk, tension seeping out of his shoulders.

Caleb feels a bit bad for scarfing down a bowl of soup when he has a guest without food, but Mollymauk appears content to pet Frumpkin while he eats. The spoon clinks against an empty bowl less than ten minutes later. Caleb’s tongue is warmer than he’d like—but then again, the same could be said for the rest of his body. Sated, he sets the bowl on the coffee table and leans back into the couch.

Mollymauk’s eyebrows arch. “Either you were very hungry or I’m a better cook than I thought.”

“Could be both,” says Caleb. “Also the fact that I haven’t, uh, had a real home-cooked meal for….” He pauses. He doesn’t want to calculate that in his head. Or say it out loud. “A while.”

“You don’t cook?”

He grimaces. “I—I do, sometimes, but rarely from scratch. The last time I tried, my kitchen caught on fire, which I am—I am not a fan of, you could say.” A soft, uncomfortable laugh. “So most of the time I get take-out. And Nott doesn’t cook either.”

Mollymauk lowers Frumpkin to his lap and lets him wriggle out of his grasp, dropping to the floor. “That’s too bad,” he says, soft. “Perhaps I should cook for you more often, then.”

“That’s—” Caleb almost laughs, which might be his fever getting to him again. “That’s your solution?”

“What,” says Mollymauk, grinning, “you don’t want me cooking for you?”

“I—eh,” says Caleb eloquently, lowering his head. His breath sticks in his throat. Studying the way the light glints off the empty bowl, he takes slow breaths in an attempt to slow his heartbeat. “Well, I. I don’t think—I don’t think I would be opposed.”

Quiet. Caleb shuts his eyes and considers spontaneous combustion. If he’d been warm before, now he’s lit up like a furnace. Then, Mollymauk chuckles and says, “Think about it, would you, Mr. Widogast? I wouldn’t be opposed either.”

“I—yes. Ja. Sehr gute Idee.” This might be the final nail in the coffin, but Mollymauk doesn’t immediately walk away. Caleb struggles with consciousness for a moment—he’s snug, and there’s a nice feeling in his stomach, not the one that indicates he has to projectile vomit the soup. Good sign. He blinks hard, trying to keep his eyes open. “Mollymauk—”

“Yes, dear?”

Caleb reaches absently up to brush the hair out of his eyes. Mollymauk’s arm had fallen over the back of the couch at some point, and now his fingers are grazing Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb doesn’t know if he notices it, but he’s pretty sure that hadn’t been what he was going to say.

“Thanks for the soup,” he says, again, when he can’t remember it.

Mollymauk’s lips twitch. “Least I could do.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t make the soup I gave you,” Caleb points out, “so I’m fairly sure I owe you, mm, something.”

“Consider it a freebie.”

“No such thing,” says Caleb, smiling but a little sad.

Mollymauk studies him for a long moment, then shrugs and says, “Fair.” He settles back, one leg folding over the other. “You still don’t have to give anything back, though. This isn’t _The Godfather_ , I won’t—” he deepens his voice and adopts another accent _“—call upon you to do a service for me.”_

Caleb snorts. His head might be bobbing forward, but there’s enough space between him and Mollymauk now that he probably won’t fall onto him. “I—I don’t think I have ever actually seen that movie.”

“It’s literally all I watched sophomore year of college. I can recite it line-by-line.”

“You will have to prove that to me,” murmurs Caleb. Mollymauk smiles again, thin but genuine—as far as he can tell, anyway. “I, uh—I don’t think I am going to throw up more, but falling asleep is a possibility.”

“That’s fine, dear,” says Mollymauk, reaching out to pat his head. His hand doesn’t leave, instead staying a warm and gentle presence nestled in Caleb’s hair. Caleb finds that he doesn’t mind. “As you put it, I know how to let myself out.”

Caleb groans at the reminder. “I do not need to remind you of the cold medicine, do I?”

“Hey. We don’t speak of the cold medicine.”

“Precisely.”

Mollymauk pats his head again, letting it fall back to the couch after a couple taps. Caleb frowns at the loss of contact.

“I didn’t—” He tenses, eyelids heavy, but mumbles, “I didn’t mind.”

Mollymauk’s eyes snap onto his. Caleb is unable to look down but also unable to hold eye contact—he shuts his eyes. A second later, Mollymauk’s palm returns to the top of his head. Caleb scoots closer reflexively, and Mollymauk’s other hand slips off the back of the couch to rest between his shoulder blades. _I didn’t mind_ had been an understatement. Lips brush Caleb’s forehead. His eyelashes flutter but stay down.

“You’re still warm,” says Mollymauk, breath hot against Caleb’s forehead. Caleb’s face burns. Of course it’d just been to check his temperature. “Do you want to go lie down?”

“I—ah—I don’t think I can walk all the way to my room.”

Mollymauk hums. “I could carry you.”

Despite the exhaustion in his bones, it’s a physical strain for Caleb to keep his eyes shut now. “Do not tease me.”

“I’m not,” says Mollymauk, a little gentler. “I have every intention of following up—if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” lies Caleb. He opens his eyes in time to see Mollymauk nod and retract his hands. “That—that is still fine, though.”

He watches as, in turn, Mollymauk watches him, dark eyes flickering over his face. Caleb has never noticed the flint of hazel in one of Mollymauk’s eyes, nor his freckles—a thin scattering across his nose, which is a rather nice face. Not to mention the eyelashes. Or exactly how soft his hair looks.

Caleb clenches one hand into a fist. He can’t tell if Mollymauk is leaning closer, or if that’s just his currently shitty depth perception, but—

But he doesn’t get to find out. The door slams open, and they scoot apart at the sound of footsteps and Nott’s voice—“CALEB? ARE YOU ALIVE? PLEASE DON’T BE DEAD—”

She stops before she slams into the wall, but spots Mollymauk once she’s righted herself. Caleb pinches his eyes shut for another few seconds. A shiver runs over him, though whether from the loss of touch or just another flu symptom he isn’t sure. He opens his eyes to see Mollymauk waving and flashing a sharp smile.

“Oh,” says Nott, belated. “It’s you.” Her eyes narrow, suspicious, as she steps closer. The hand not clutching a Walgreens bag sneaks into her jacket pocket—Caleb had _hoped_ she didn’t still carry knives on her, but it seems his hopes have been dashed. “Why are you here?”

“Nott, don’t stab him, he brought me soup.”

Nott’s hand leaves her side, but the suspicious look doesn’t leave. “What’d you do? His words are all—they’re all fuzzy. Soup—” Her eyes snap to the kitchen table. “ _Poisoned_ soup?”

“Schwesterherz. Please.” Caleb gets up and immediately sways on his feet. Mollymauk follows him up, catching him with a loose grip, and Nott’s eyes narrow further. “You can threaten him another time. Right now I would like to go back to—back to… what’s the word?”

“Bed?” suggests Mollymauk.

Caleb nods, gesturing at him. He leans into the arms holding him up. Powerful, he thinks, blinking. Had Mollymauk always been this strong?

“He actually said he had the stomach flu out loud,” whispers Nott. Caleb makes a face in protest—he’d said it to Jester, hadn’t he?—but he doesn’t think she sees it. “You really _have_ done something to him—”

“I assure you,” says Mollymauk, “I’ve done nothing. Would you like to watch over him just to make sure?”

Caleb is too busy falling asleep onto Mollymauk’s shoulder to hear the rest of the conversation, but it must be a non-lethal one, because he wakes after a dubious lack of dreams to sipping noises. He squints at the green-haired figure above him, a bowl up to her lips. Her nose is scrunched up, the gold septum ring glinting in the low light.

As soon as she notices his eyes are open—no matter how fast they shut again—Nott squeaks and pounces, slamming the bowl into her lap. Broth sloshes out onto her jeans and the dining room chair she’s brought in.

“Cay-Cay! You’re up!”

“How—uh—how long was I asleep?” Caleb ignores the nickname and fumbles for the nightstand, searching for the switch on his lamp. With a click, glaring gold light washes over his face.

“Twelve hours? Molly left a long time ago, he had to stick around to help me carry you—” she sounds bitter about this “—but he left right after. His soup is really good though.” Even more bitter.

Caleb smiles weakly. “It is indeed.”

Nott bites her lip and glances around the room. “You’re sure he—he didn’t do anything?”

“Nothing bad,” says Caleb, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Now, will you please tell me it is not a school day?” He hears Nott’s mouth open. It takes some strain for him to add, “I don’t care if it actually is. Bryce will probably kill me if I show up.”

“It’s—it’s not a school day?”

“Perfect.”

He lets his hand fall back to the pillow but shuts his eyes regardless. Nott shuffles above him—her clothes rustle as she moves. Caleb’s eyes stay closed.

“Do you,” says Nott, and then she stops. There’s a long pause—Caleb hums, soft, to indicate he’d heard, but Nott stays quiet another couple beats. “How do you feel about everyone else who works at the school?”

Three guesses what this is about and the first two don’t count. Caleb sucks in his breath through his teeth and says, “ _Schwesterherz_ , I would really just like to sleep—”

“Humor me?”

Another brief pause. Caleb exhales, trying to even out his breaths convincingly, then gives up and opens his eyes. “They are… reliable. And a good number are—are kinder than—” _Than I deserve_ , he wants to say, staring at the soup in Nott’s hands. He bites his lower lip, swallowing the words down because he knows what expression Nott would make, and tastes copper.

Nott’s fingers tighten on the bowl. “They’re nice,” she agrees. “But do you trust them?”

“Yes,” says Caleb without having to think about it. His eyes flutter shut again before he has to watch Nott’s expression cloud with guilt.

She doesn’t speak again until he’s drifting out of consciousness, and when she does, it’s with a soft and high-pitched, “Sleep well, Caleb.”

He thinks he manages a hum of recognition before he falls asleep again.

+

The next time Caleb sees Mollymauk, it’s on Monday. Caleb is still shaky and tired, even with a weekend of medicine and lots of water behind him, but that’s not too far off from normal. Nott is pleased that he both looks and feels better and doesn’t barricade the door before they leave that morning.

Unfortunately, he’s also fallen behind on work even being out two days. His library doesn’t look so bad—perhaps Jester had been right about her “friend Cali.” Caleb heads upstairs to check his mailbox, bringing with him a stack of worksheets for the week and leaving behind a promise with Nott that she wouldn’t destroy anything. In the office, he bumps into Mollymauk, clutching a bundle of papers himself.

There’s a full half-minute of wide-eyed staring, then Mollymauk blurts, “You shaved.”

“I did, ja,” says Caleb flatly.

Something crosses Mollymauk’s face, and he clears his throat and gestures toward the entrance hall. It won’t likely be any more private—the buses are starting to roll in—but Caleb nods, short, forgetting about what he’d had to do up here in the first place.

As he follows Mollymauk out, he notes his hair: growing out, grazing the back of his neck, and still bright pink. Caleb doesn’t think it’s been pink before. It’s been purple, blue, both, and teal at different points, but never pink that he’s noticed. Or at least not this shade, a dark bubblegum. He supposes he’d brushed the new color off in the face of everything else about the situation, but Caleb feels a little bad for not noticing how nice it looked on Thursday.

He means to say so, but before he can, Mollymauk turns outside the office. Caleb almost runs into him.

“Sorry for being blunt, dear,” says Mollymauk. “I was just, er, caught off guard? You look strange without the scruff—oh, it looks nice, don’t get me wrong, very snazzy,” he adds quickly. Caleb opens his mouth but comes up with nothing. “But I don’t think I’ve seen you without at least a bit of five o’clock shadow in the two years I’ve known you.”

Caleb rubs his warm cheek. His jaw still feels rough and stubbly; his hair _does_ grow fast. “I suppose I missed it once I felt better. Shaving. That is.” _Obviously_ , he thinks, biting his cheek.

“Full of surprises,” murmurs Mollymauk with a smile. He lowers his head and adjusts his arms, papers gathered in them crinkling together. The bronze ring on his lower lip catches the light above—Caleb’s eyes flicker, instinctual, to it.

The comfortable moment of silence is shattered when the doors fling open—in pile students off the first bus. Mollymauk takes a startled step back, smile more placid. He ruffles Toya’s hair as she passes.

“Well, have a good day,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the heard of energetic grade schoolers. He lifts his hand—Caleb mimics it—and then strides past into the main hallway.

Caleb stands there, numb, for several seconds after he leaves. Then he remembers Nott and the few students that hang out in the library before the first bell rings. Nott having to handle them, to be more specific.

“Oh, Scheiße—”

Walking by, Mona (or maybe Yuli) stares at him. Caleb is used to this kind of stare from the older kids and particularly bold or knowledgeable younger ones. Is this a sad fact? Yes.

“You didn’t hear anything,” says Caleb.

Whichever twin it is snickers as he turns tail and marches away, bag tight against his side. He makes a fervid mental note to stop swearing at school—no matter the language. He knows in the back of his mind that he won’t end up following it, but he thinks it mournfully anyway.

Sometimes, Caleb doesn’t mind his job— _loves_ would be a stretch, _likes_ wouldn’t be wholly inaccurate but still stuffy.

Now is not one of those times.

(He realizes, of course, once he’s halfway down the stairs that he’d had business in the office in the first place. Scheiße indeed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, see you tuesday! (i won't spoil too much about chapter 4, but i _will_ tell you that it's probably the longest in part 1 -- unless chapter 5 edits end up adding over 1k -- and that it's probably one of my favorites!)
> 
> translations:  
> \+ Verdammter Schnürsenkel: damn shoelaces  
> \+ Scheißkerl: motherfucker/son of a bitch  
> \+ blöder Kater: stupid cat  
> \+ Satansbraten: devil  
> \+ Sehr gute Idee: very good idea
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	4. part i, chapter iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Halloween carnival is held and Caleb and Nott have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say about this one! except that it's definitely my favorite in part i. and that "monster mash" and "spooky scary skeletons" are good theme songs for it
> 
> enjoy!

The Halloween carnival had been far from Caleb’s idea, and yet here he is. (It might be humanly impossible for someone to shut down Jester’s puppy dog eyes.) It’s the night before the actual day so trick-or-treating plans can proceed as usual, but the festivities are still in full swing. Caleb sits, comforted by his discomfort, and proctors a library full of children and their chaperones playing Halloween-themed bingo.

Nott has already called him an old man at least ten times since they’ve arrived. He’s been ignoring this. Since she’s wearing a fake beard and star-patterned set of a hat and robes, it’s difficult to take her too seriously. He supposes the same could be said for his own costume, though; he totes a furry hoodie (complete with wolf ears on the hood) over a flannel shirt (stolen from Beau) and tattered jeans. The fake sharp canines had been uncomfortable, and so now sit in his bag.

After the first two games, about forty minutes into the event, the library has grown stuffy. Caleb asks Nott to take over while he looks around—he has enough faith in her by now—and steps out of the library for fresh air. More visitors flocking in acknowledge him with little nods.

“Good evening,” he mutters as nudges through.

The cafeteria is closest, so that’s where he moves, half on instinct. In the salad bar’s usual place, a stand is set up, selling decorated pastries and cookies. Surely Jester’s handiwork. Caleb smiles but continues on.

A blinking sign before the stairs catches his eyes. _Get your fortune read by the wondrous Mx. Tealeaf!_ it proclaims in neon purple. Its more subdued subtitle reads, _Tarot readings for three pieces of candy._ Above it is an actual tent—a small one, enough that it barely touches the ceiling of the cafeteria and doesn’t block off the path to the music room, but a tent nonetheless. Maroon; made of a sheer, velvety velvet Caleb is compelled to touch. He keeps his hands in his pockets, though, and—before he can think better of it—ducks inside.

His eyes pass over the blue, candle-lined walls to fall on the figure behind a circular table draped in black. Mollymauk’s ring-covered hands are still over a thin deck of cards, mouth parted with surprise. Plastic fangs poke out from beneath his lip. Red paint dribbles from the corner of his mouth. A high red collar, attached to a black cape that billows around his wrists, grazes his cheeks.

Mollymauk clears his throat, recovering with a smile. “Well, hi. Didn’t think you’d be stopping by tonight. Oh, and very nice costume—you make an adorable werewolf.”

Caleb decides not to reply to the last part with more than a flush. He pushes his hood down, and Mollymauk makes an almost disappointed face. “Curiosity won out.” He shrugs and pulls out the chair opposing Mollymauk. “I—I didn’t think you were serious about the reading suggestion.”

“I’m _always_ serious,” says Mollymauk. At Caleb’s flat look, he laughs and says, “All right, no, but in this case, very much so. Bought a deck from a tourist trap when I was sixteen, maybe. It’s been my backup career since.”

“Mm.” Caleb doesn’t know whether to laugh politely or roll his eyes and so goes for the middle ground: apathy. At sixteen, he sure hadn’t been perusing tourist traps and buying tarot cards on a whim. For a moment, he wonders why Mollymauk had ( _or_ if it’s a flourish on a more boring story). “Well, I do not really believe in this sort of thing, but—I’m already here, so I suppose I should ask for a reading.”

A hum. “I _did_ promise you one.”

“You—you have more than made up for that—”

Mollymauk shrugs and begins shuffling the deck. “Like you said, you’re already here, aren’t you? No need to pay, either, this one’s on the house.”

Caleb wants to protest, but Mollymauk’s deliberate shuffling leaves no room for argument. It’s not as showy as Caleb would’ve expected—systematic and calm, no hint of flashiness. In a flick of the wrist, twenty-two cards spill in a flat line between them. Their brightly patterned backs glow against the void of a tablecloth.

“I’ll do a three-card spread,” says Mollymauk. “One card for your past, one for your present, and one for your future. Major Arcana only—unless you want me to bust out the rest?”

“Uh. No thank you?” Caleb isn’t sure what the right answer is, but Mollymauk’s simple nod shows no indication that was correct or incorrect. Maybe there hadn’t been a right answer.

Mollymauk gestures to the cards. “Little disclaimer: tarot isn’t an exact science and shouldn’t be relied upon for big life decisions, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Naturally,” says Caleb.

“Sorry,” says Mollymauk, grinning. “Pretty sure I legally have to do that before every reading, otherwise I get sued by people who draw the Lovers and then get rejected. That’s why I don’t do this outside of, well, _this_ —” he waves an airy hand around the tent “—and readings for friends.”

“Understandable.”

Caleb shifts in his seat as Mollymauk leans back, fingers gliding across the cards before him. “So what’s on your mind, Caleb?”

“I—I’m sorry?”

“Tarot readings can center around a—a guiding question, of sorts,” says Mollymauk. His hands slip off the cards to steeple under his chin. “They don’t have to, necessarily, but it helps narrow the results down. Think for a couple minutes—any specific concerns you’re dealing with right now?”

A moment of silence passes. Then another. Caleb chews at his nail throughout it, considering—there’s one that comes to mind, sure, but he doesn’t think he’d ever live down asking about his love life. He’s not _worried_ about anything work-related, per se, and all of his other relationships seem fine.

Throat dry, he says, soft, “I do not think there are any, nein.”

Mollymauk blinks. “All right. Then—”

His fingers return to the cards. With casual but not unintentional pauses, he draws three cards from the row and sets them down in front of Caleb. Their presence seems more ominous than ever now. Mollymauk sweeps the remaining cards of the deck back into a stack, then leans forward, sharp face illuminated in the candles surrounding them. Subconscious, Caleb tilts forward.

Mollymauk flips one card over. “This is your past card,” he says, prodding its shiny surface. A robed man clutches a lantern, peeking warily upward. “The Hermit represents solitude and introspection. Here, it can mean resting after a journey—literal or metaphorical—that you now need time to reflect upon. You’ve lived fairly secluded, I think would be fair to say.”

Caleb averts his gaze and nods, silent. Mollymauk moves onto the next card. A woman stands beneath a cloudless night sky, a pair of wolves on either side of her. It’s an oddly foreboding scene.

“The Moon,” says Mollymauk. “Illusion, fear, anxiety, lack of clarity.”

“Title of my autobiography,” mutters Caleb.

Mollymauk covers his startled laugh with a hand. Caleb is captivated for an instant, eyes snapping up. Catching himself with a cough, Mollymauk says, “Something confusing is happening. You aren’t sure where to go next—the information you have about this situation won’t fit together. The fear represented is usually that of the unknown.” He tilts his head, pink hair curling against his collar. “But you can find your way through it if you don’t take things for what they seem.”

Caleb’s hands tighten in his lap. “Next one?”

Mollymauk’s gaze flickers over his face, something unreadable there, but he nods and flips over the final card. “The Magician—skill and resourcefulness. You’re full of potential, and if you see things through and follow the right course, you’ll earn what you want and become who you’d like to be. But it’ll come with a cost.”

Caleb isn’t sure how to react—he’s also still not wholly convinced of the accuracy, but the dryness returning to his throat would claim otherwise. A minute of silence trickles past. Unable to bear it, Caleb blurts, “Thank you for—for the reading.”

“Of course,” says Mollymauk, gentle. He hesitates, tongue clicking, and then adds, “Don’t take it to heart, dear. It’s pseudoscience, not to be taken too seriously, all that.”

“Of course,” echoes Caleb.

He musters up a thin smile, which Mollymauk mimics, and opens his mouth to say something—what, he doesn’t quite know. Before he can speak, the curtains rustle and fingers wrap around the ears of his hood and he’s yanked to his feet so fast he gets whiplash.

He looks down as he’s lifted out of the chair and off the floor itself. A grinning Jester, dressed in black and red and wearing fake fangs to rival Mollymauk’s, holds him up. In the other hand, she wields a crimson pitchfork that clashes with the walls of the tent. _Oh no_ is the only coherent thought going through Caleb’s head.

Mollymauk raises his eyebrows. “Hello, Jester,” he says, wary. “Are you here for another reading? ‘Cause that’s not really, uh—”

“Nope!” says Jester, ignoring the fact that she’s hauled Caleb off his feet. He sways in her vice grip and stares mournfully at the pointed tent ceiling. “Just came to grab Caleb—”

“Literally, I see,” says Mollymauk.

Jester snickers. “I’ll be back for you later, though.”

“Jester,” says Caleb, as Mollymauk opens then shuts his mouth and Jester tightens her grip, “please put me down.”

She shrugs and lowers him, but doesn’t release him. His soles click against the tile—he’s not as relieved, he thinks, as he ought to be. That’s probably the fact that Jester’s grip on the back of his hoodie doesn’t seem even close to relenting.

Mollymauk gives them a fake-fanged grin. “Well. Have fun.”

“Oh, we will,” says Jester, shooting an unnervingly bright look at Caleb. “See you later, Molly!”

And with that, she pulls Caleb by the hood out of the tent once more. He shoots the dirtiest look he can manage (not very) over his shoulder at Mollymauk, who just flashes his teeth again.

Every head in the cafeteria whirls their way. Jester drops Caleb’s hood to wave at the passersby, her grin glowing in the fluorescent sign still blinking at them. She links her arm through his as soon as she decides she’s done, elbow tight against his.

“I want you to see the gym,” she says, walking and pulling him with her. “It’s _super_ pretty—Bryce and Yasha and Fjord and Beau put a lot of work into it. Also, I’m going to paint your face.”

Still reeling, Caleb lets himself be guided toward the stairs. “Could you not have told me that first?”

Jester pouts. “That wouldn’t have been as fun, though.”

Caleb begs to differ, but he sighs and doesn’t push it. They must make an odd pair—Caleb with his ratty (on purpose tonight) clothes and Jester with tiny bat wings, curling demon horns, a frilly black dress, and a pitchfork. A werewolf and a demon. They’ve stepped right off the cover of an urban fantasy novel—just add vampire Mollymauk in and they’d make a picture-perfect love triangle.

He brushes that thought off before it can escalate to the _details_ of that love triangle, in time to realize they’ve reached the gym. “Monster Mash” spills out into the hall, almost deafening when they step inside. Jester bounces on her heels as she drags him down the bleachers. Beneath them, in the square layout of the gym, a U-shape of various vendors and stands weaves around a central dance floor and the stage.

On the far left, Fjord stands behind a tub of apples. Next to him is an abandoned stand with a handwritten sign saying, _FACE-PAINTING & TEMP TATS!!_, a smiley face with a clown nose scribbled beneath. Cree and Shakäste chatter among themselves at a ring toss; beside them, Gustav waves children and their parents over to a beanbag toss. Curving over to the right side, Yasha is arm wrestling with—Caleb squints—Beau, a crowd of people cheering either one on. Pumat is selling various goodies next to them but is also leaning over to watch the match. Dairon seems to have given up on a game called _Pin the Wart on the Witch_ in favor of cheering on her mentee. The makeshift dance floor is scarcely populated, peeling tiles lighting up orange and green and black.

It’s a lot to take in at once. Caleb stifles the anxiety building in his stomach and looks at Jester—in turn, she’s looking at Beau and Yasha, a grin plastered over her face.

He clears his throat. “You wanted to paint my face, ja?”

Jester snaps out of it, shaking herself and dragging her gaze away from the arm wrestling stand. “Oh! Yes! Right this way—”

They make their way past students and parents and an exhausted-looking Bryce in the corner to the left side of the stands. When he looks a second time at Fjord, Caleb almost laughs—while Jester wears black and red, Fjord is decked out in white and gold, pale toga completed by small wings and a halo.

“Nice couple costumes,” he says.

Jester beams. “We’ve had them planned for _months_ , it was so hard to keep them secret—they’re so good, right?”

Fjord glances up from where he’s patting a gasping, soaked child on the arm and murmuring something. His face does that melting thing it always does when he sees Jester. Caleb smiles.

“I told her not to bother you,” says Fjord, shaking his head.

Caleb shrugs. “You should know that she cannot be stopped.”

“Very true.”

Jester drops Caleb’s arm to rush over to the child and grasp her by the shoulders, leaning in close to rattle off a series of questions. Caleb doesn’t catch most of it over the music, but it ends with, “I’m a licensed nurse, you know, I’m very good at performing the Heimlich maneuver—”

“She’s fine, Jes,” says Fjord. Jester pulls a face, but lets go of the girl (who looks more uncomfortable at the attention now than anything else). “Just overcompensated and went under longer than she could handle. You—you _are_ fine, right?”

The kid—third-grade Cordelia—gives a weak smile and scurries off into the crowd. Fjord scratches his head, Jester hums in thought, and Caleb simply shrugs.

Jester seems to remember her goal—she gasps and tugs on Caleb’s arm. She pulls him over to her stand (Fjord gives Caleb a pitying look) and manhandles him into a wobbly stool before he realizes what’s happening. Leaning back, she purses her lips and folds her arms.

“Do you trust me?”

Caleb averts his gaze as warm cotton candy-scented breath blows across his face. “Not when you ask like that.”

“Caleeeb.”

“Sure,” he says with a sigh, fairly sure he’ll regret this.

Jester beams and reaches for a small toolkit.

The face paint tickles and, as soon as she starts dabbing it on, Caleb realizes his nose itches, but he sits as still as possible regardless. He takes the several minutes of delicate painting to glance around the room more. All he can really see, what with Jester looming over him, is students approaching Fjord to bob for apples, but that’s entertaining enough.

By the time Jester steps back, Beau and Yasha seem to still be arm wrestling—or at least, their audience is hanging around. Jester glances over Caleb and makes a pleased (he thinks/hopes) sound.

Then she shoves a mirror in his face. Caleb’s eyes readjust and uncross. He’s never been a fan of mirrors, but he studies himself in this one—Jester has smoothed his hair back to showcase the additions she’s made to his costume. Black lines his eyes and covers the tip of his nose; small dots for whiskers sprinkle his face like freckles. It’s a weird sensation—sticky and heavy, tempting to rub off.

“It looks nice,” he says, though, because it does.

Jester squeals and claps both his shoulders, the resounding smacking sound echoing through the gym. He’d forgotten how good the acoustics in here are. Once he’s recovered from the stinging sensation in both his ears and arms, Caleb takes Jester’s offered hands. She pulls him up to his full height and squeezes his hands.

“Off you go!” She winks, then spins and shoves him out into the crowd.

It’s not as concentrated in the middle of the room anymore—the only real gathering is surrounding Beau and Yasha. Caleb sighs and figures he should at least check it out. He gives Fjord a _your fiancée terrifies me constantly_ sort of look over his shoulder before he wanders over there.

He edges past the thick cloud of people to see what’s happening with minimal complaints. He’s not even irritated about the people pressing into all sides of him (well, a little) when he gets far enough in that he can see the stand.

Yasha and Beau are locked in a hands-only embrace, Yasha’s right hand driving Beau’s downward. In a blink, the push is reversed. A delighted grin sits on Beau’s face; it might be the closest she’s physically gotten to Yasha thus far. Their eyes are locked on one another’s. The crowd watches eagerly for a decisive victory—some chant Beau’s name, some Yasha’s, but neither looks away.

Caleb takes in their costumes—Yasha wears an all-black ensemble with webbing running down the arms and pointy ears atop. A bat. He doesn’t know if the alignment with Mollymauk’s was coincidental, but he’d doubt it. Beau wears mostly blue, a tank top and a furry brown skirt over baggy pants. Dark azure bandages form makeshift gloves around her arms.

The upper hand continues switching; it’s a see-sawing match. Yasha’s jaw flexes as she pushes forward after a swift back-and-forth. It looks for a brief second as if she’s finally going to win, and then—

Beau jerks up, forcing her hand down. Surprise flashes across Yasha’s features. It’s followed by hard determination, but her and Beau’s faces are closer than ever now, a thin sliver of space between their noses. Beau’s grin tips into a smirk. She shoves, hard, thumb working and body curling back, dragging Yasha with her—

 _Slam_. Caleb’s eyes widen as Yasha’s arm slips and her hand crashes down onto the table (which, now that he looks at it, is probably two desks taped together and covered in spiderweb-patterned cloth). The crowd is silent. One second—two—three. Then cheers erupt all around, rebounding off each other. Those fucking acoustics.

Beau springs to her feet and pumps her fists in the air. “FU—” She seems to remember she’s surrounded by children (some of whom say worse every day) and their scowling parents and clears her throat. Yasha covers a grin with her palm. “ _HECK_ YEAH!”

Caleb claps politely as she reaches across the table to shake a blinking Yasha’s hand. They smile at each other, gentle in a sweet way. Yasha reaches behind her to present Beau with her prize: a bobbing pumpkin-shaped balloon. She takes Beau’s wrist and ties the string around it. Beau grins, goofy, up at her, then spreads her arms in victory and walks right into her adoring fans.

“Nice job,” says Caleb when she steps toward him.

She beams and flashes him two thumbs-ups. About twelve children are hot on her tail, begging for autographs and lessons for becoming that strong. Caleb snorts and glances back up to the stand. Already someone has taken Beau’s place—a stick-thin fourth-grader. Yasha is much easier on the children, letting them maneuver her without pushing back. Her arm still doesn’t move much, though.

Caleb nods at her when she glances over the thinning out crowd. She nods back.

With that, Caleb wanders back over to Fjord and Jester’s side of the room. Jester has left her station again. It doesn’t take him long to spot her pitchfork—she’s at the ring toss, Shakäste egging her on while she sticks her tongue out, seemingly deep in concentration. At his station but not paying attention to the kids walking up, Fjord leans forward to watch.

Caleb chuckles under his breath and steps over. “Is she trying to win a stuffed animal?”

Fjord straightens up. “Yup, this is her second go. GOOD LUCK, JES!” he yells, drawing some dirty looks.

Without looking away, Jester gives him an OK symbol over her shoulder, then—still holding that hand up—flings one of the rings in her hands. It lands with a shudder on one of the witch hats. Fjord whoops.

Cree claps. It makes a muffled sound, given her fluffy cat paw gloves. “Two more!”

Jester takes a deep breath and tosses the next ring. It clicks into place on another hat, and Shakäste claps this time. His round red sunglasses catch the lights as he says, “One more!”

“Viel Glück!” shouts Caleb, hands around his mouth. It makes his throat hurt, but Jester shoots a smile at him.

Eyes fluttering shut, she stretches and rolls her neck. She chucks the last ring with her eyes still closed. Caleb is pretty sure this is a bad strategy, but Jester opens her eyes just in time to see the ring land, defiant, on the final hat.

A LED light atop the stand flashes _WINNER!_ as Jester squeals at a pitch that should break the sound barrier. Fjord cheers beside Caleb like it’s his own victory—and since Jester prances over less than a minute later with her prize, it might as well be.

She shoves the colorful zombie shark (almost as large as her torso) into Fjord’s arms. Eyes widening, Fjord clutches it to his chest.

“Happy birthday,” she says brightly.

“It’s—it ain’t my birthday,” says Fjord.

Jester waves a hand. “Well, happy something.”

“Halloween,” offers Caleb.

She whirls on him, eyes shining. Fjord looks ready to protest more—but, Caleb notes, he also isn’t letting go of the shark.

“Welcome back,” says Jester cheerfully. “Did you see Beau and Yasha?”

“I did, ja. Beau won.” He scans the crowd, peering over their heads for an orange balloon with a face, but doesn’t find anything. “It was a very, eh… _interesting_ match.”

Jester snickers. “Those two are totally in love,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I’ve been planning interventions since Beau saw her at that first staff meeting. And then a Plan B, in case Yasha doesn’t get jealous easily. She seems like someone who would, though, don’t you think?”

“I think you should not interfere in other people’s love lives,” says Caleb pointedly. It’s ruined by him adding a second later, “But if you would not mind sharing these plans with me, I’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you for your help, Caleb,” says Jester, grinning. “I will come to you if I make any new developments.”

Fjord looks less than pleased with this conversation. Caleb then forgets she has fake horns on and pats her on the head—he manages to weave his hand out of harm’s way, palm landing on the headband part.

“Oh yes, those are very sharp.” Jester does a gleeful little spin. “I’m considering wearing them every day.”

Fjord clears his throat. “Honey, hasn’t Bryce told us to set an example for students by following the dress code? I have to say I do like this halo, though,” he admits, and Jester giggles.

“Excuse me—” A woman emerges out of the crowd, bringing with her a tiny girl with short dark hair and costume wings. “Would you three happen to work here? At this school, I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fjord morphs into a Responsible Authority Figure once more, straightening up. “I’m Fjord, the kindergarten teacher—my fiancée here, with the blue hair, is Ms. Lavorre, the nurse and counselor—”

“Hello!” says Jester, beaming at the little girl, who shrinks back.

“—and the scruffy-looking gentleman is Mr. Widogast, our librarian.”

Caleb considers taking offense, but it’s true—tonight _and_ every other day of the week. He lifts a hand.

“Oh, good,” says the woman, smiling. “I’ve been introducing my daughter to all the teachers—she’ll be starting in a couple weeks, so I want her to know them. You’ll be her teacher, Mr. Fjord, I assume.” She kneels and squeezes the girl’s hand, looking imploringly between her and the three adults. “Can you say hello, Kiri?”

The girl—Kiri—looks up with wide, beady eyes. “Hello,” she mimics.

Jester squeals, eyes crinkling at the edges as her grin widens. “Oh, you’re so cute! I hope you will have fun here, Kiri,” she says. “We’re a really great school.”

While Fjord and Jester carry on the conversation with Kiri’s mother, Caleb joins her in crouching. He recognizes something about Kiri’s disposition—the way her eyes stick to the floor and the way her voice had been almost a perfect copy of her mother’s, plus the shaky stiffness in her shoulders.

“Hallo,” he murmurs. “This whole thing is a bit much, hm?”

Her wide eyes focus on him—or, rather, his forehead. Caleb smiles. Kiri nods and then goes back to looking at the floor.

“Downstairs is much quieter,” he says a little louder, maybe cutting off Fjord and Jester—he hadn’t been focused on their conversation, and he can’t tell from their expressions. “If Kiri would like to spend some time relaxing down there.”

Kiri’s mother blinks. “Oh! Of course, sweetheart—do you want to go downstairs?” She bumps her shoulder against Kiri, who nods sheepishly. “Thank you, um—Mr. Widogast, was it?” Caleb nods. “We’ll be going now.”

“Of course.”

Kiri’s mother gets to her feet and leads Kiri toward the exit, hands still tightly clutched together. Caleb watches them disappear up the bleachers and out one of the doors. He realizes, as soon as they’ve exited, that Fjord and Jester are both looking at him.

“What is it?”

Fjord’s mouth snaps shut. “Sorry—just never seen you like that, I reckon.” He scratches the back of his neck. “That was….”

“Really nice and sweet,” cuts in Jester, and Fjord nods. As Caleb stands, knees crunching, she rushes forward to press her palm against his forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Is your stomach flu back? I will catch you if you feel like fainting, I am very strong—”

“Are you implying I am not nice?” says Caleb, lips twitching. Both fall immediately silent. He sighs. “It was a joke. I am not great with children—despite my career choice—but I can appreciate one who likes quieter places.”

“Ooh.” Jester smiles up at him, kind and soft. Caleb doesn’t know how to react to that expression. When he glances over her, Fjord looks like a proud father, and he scowls harder at that. “Would you like a quieter place right now?”

“I am fine here,” says Caleb, and is surprised to find that he means it.

The noise is simmering, since it’s nearing bedtimes for children with parents who set them and others (including him) are getting headaches from the reverberating music. He doesn’t mind just standing here. It’s calming. His eighth-grade therapist—and all the ones after that, too—would be proud of him, he supposes.

“However,” he adds, and Jester frowns, “I left Nott in charge of the library and it has been at least half an hour, so I should check on her. Gute Nacht.”

He gets two _Night, Caleb_ s (one peppier than the other) before he turns on his heel. The halls are also quieting down by now, not seeing as much foot traffic—so he makes his way downstairs without incidence. It gives his thoughts time to stew. That’s not always a good thing, but since he’s relaxed right now, he’s able to fend off the usual more intrusive ones, filled with fire and violence. They’re more gentle ones—some thoughts have their thorns, but for once, Caleb is able to brush them off as he walks.

At least until his boots stop in front of the closed library door. Bracing himself, he squeezes his eyes shut and shoves inside.

There’s a scuffling sound, then a squeal of, “Caleb!”

He inhales and opens his eyes. No fire (of course that’s the first thing he looks for and sniffs for too); no ripped books; no potato chips smashed into the carpet; no obvious water stains. He has more trust in Nott than he did a month and a half ago, of course, but he’s still impressed.

Nott sits in her spinny chair a few feet away from him, beard ditched somewhere but robes still on and hat drooping over her eyes. Besides the two of them, there’s no one in the library. Music and voices drift down from the cafeteria. Not Mollymauk’s voice, though, to what Caleb tells himself is his relief. (It’s not.)

Caleb dusts his jacket off and heads back around the counter to sink into his chair. “Thank you for not destroying my library.”

“You say that every time you walk back in! I would _never_.” Nott shrinks under his sharp look, and adds a quiet, “On purpose.”

“That is more like it.” He leans back in his seat. On the other side of the counter, Nott is doing little spins in her chair, inching her way across the length of the library. He doesn’t want to think about what that’s doing to his carpet. “Did you just kick everyone out once I left?”

“No,” she says, a little too defensive. A beat. “Well—not at first. I tried to run another game, but I don’t really get the _point_ of bingo except as something old people do to kill boredom when they’re in homes—”

“Young people play it too.”

Nott gives him a withering look. “Okay, Caleb,” she says, dripping suspicion and judgment. “Anyway, I don’t get the point and the rules were all confusing, so I gave up and gave everyone the candy that was left.”

“That’s—that’s fine,” says Caleb with a snort. “Has anyone been by since?”

“Molly was in a bit ago.” Nott kicks back in her chair, propelling herself back so she’s directly across the counter from him. Her tattered bag dangles off the back of the chair. “Said he was going up to the gym. You missed him by like, three minutes.”

“Mm.” It’s the most coherent response he can come up with for a moment. “And what did Mollymauk want?”

Nott studies him, gaze very careful. It’s unnerving—even more so than her usual golden, unblinking stare. “To tell you something else about your—your reading, he said,” she says, disgruntled. “Oh, and he gave me cookies—”

With a flourish, she twists her bag around and gets a smaller plastic bag out. Decorated sugar cookies in a variety of shapes shift inside, their sprinkles almost blindingly bright. Tying the bag together is a strip of silvery ribbon that Caleb recognizes from Jester’s vast collection of hair accessories.

He smiles. “That was nice of him.”

Eyebrows scrunching, Nott opens her mouth, but before she can say more, the person in question appears in the doorway. Mollymauk’s cape is now _drenched_ in glitter. He doesn’t seem too broken up about that—in fact, he’s grinning, his face sparkling in a way that isn’t just in Caleb’s rose-colored vision. It’s half with sweat, Caleb realizes when he squints, and half with more glitter.

“Ah, good,” says Mollymauk, breathy, “you two haven’t left yet. I was hoping to catch you—I come bearing gifts.”

Caleb only notices his hands had been behind his back when he swings them out. A stuffed cat sits in each hand. One is black and green, wearing a wizard’s hat similar to Nott’s; the other a dark, burnt orange with gold eyes. Mollymauk tosses the black and green one to Nott—it lands neatly in her palms—and the orange one to Caleb—he lunges to catch it, fumbling, but manages to not slam into anything or drop the stuffed animal.

Mollymauk’s smile widens as Nott, scrutinizing, holds the cat up to her face. “They were left over. Nott, I’m pretty sure it’s witches and not wizards that need cat friends, but this one looked friendly enough. And Caleb, yours matches Frumpkin,” he says cheerfully, spreading his hands.

Caleb glances down. It does—it even has similar stripe patterns. Warmth settles in his chest. “Thank you,” he says, eyes on his desktop keyboard.

He gives Nott a look, and she coughs and straightens from where she’s hunched over the cat. “Thanks.”

“Well, you know,” says Mollymauk. Caleb catches the softening of his smile and red high on his face before he turns and hovers in the doorway. “Didn’t want to let anything go to waste.”

Caleb doesn’t call him out on it, since the stuffed cat’s weight is nice in his hands and Nott seems to be fascinated with hers already. Glitter trails after Mollymauk as he heads out the door, cape swishing. Nott bursts out in giggles—Caleb can’t help a smile of his own. A perfect exit for a—well. He doesn’t let himself think something that cheesy.

It’s only when they’re walking out to the car that he realizes Nott had told him Mollymauk had already been by. He decides that he’s not so desperate to desperate to find out what Mollymauk had wanted to say that he’ll call him now.

It’s a close damn thing, though.

+

The next day goes as normal as can be expected, given the “no costumes at school” rule and the students’ tendencies to act like feral animals on holidays. After dinner, Caleb and Nott stick with their forgotten tradition of setting up a bowl of store-bought candy and catching a marathon of Halloween movies on TV (or rather, any channel that doesn’t play gory, jumpscare-heavy horror).

Tonight, _The Addams Family_ follows the tail end of _Hocus Pocus_. Frumpkin peers up at Caleb once they sit. Caleb thinks for a second he’s going to ignore him and hop up onto Nott—instead, Frumpkin climbs up into Caleb’s lap. Smiling, Caleb settles a hand on Frumpkin’s back and strokes absently, comforted by the combined weights of him and a blanket.

Nott angles herself away from Caleb, messy bob shielding her face from view. He almost says something, but the current infomercial ends and he shuts his mouth. Nott doesn’t reach for the candy bowl sitting on the coffee table, though Frumpkin inclines his head in its direction. Caleb tightens his grip. He doesn’t want to take an emergency trip to the vet at midnight on Halloween because of his cat swallowing a still-wrapped Snickers bar.

It’s twenty minutes in before either dares to break the enraptured silence—Nott says, small, “Caleb?”

He hesitates. He could take the provided out and pretend not to have heard her under the loudness of the current scene—he almost _hadn’t_ , anyway. No, he decides as he reaches for the remote, he should try to actually communicate. The television freezes on a still of a smiling Gomez.

When Caleb glances over, sitting forward and framing Frumpkin with his elbows, Nott’s hair has fallen away from her face. Her eyes stick to the carpet. One hand plucks at the loose seams on her sock.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks.

Caleb scrapes a hand through his stubble. “Why would I be, Schwesterherz?”

Nott shrinks. The screen’s cool lighting reflects off her face, making the expansive whites of her eyes glow. “For taking that job in the first place.”

“No,” says Caleb at once. Her gaze snaps up. He weighs his words against his tongue—his thoughts run together, a rat’s nest of feelings and facts in multiple languages, and he tries his best to untangle them. “I haven’t been _mad_ , and I would have told you if that were the case. I wouldn’t—I would not have given you false hope with the winter break deadline.”

“Oh,” says Nott, quiet. She continues pulling apart her sock, then adds, “Because it—it still feels like you’re being weird about it, and—and your—well, our co-workers. And I don’t know why.”

Caleb strokes Frumpkin with a little more force than he means to and receives a ruffled look in return. “Entschuldigung,” he mutters to him. To Nott, he says, “I like the people I work with. But I am still not good with people, even the ones I have grown—” He sighs. “Even the ones I have grown close to over the last several years.”

Nott’s brows knit. “I know—”

“And I do not believe,” says Caleb softly, “that I deserve the kindness they have shown me.” Nott’s mouth opens. He holds up a hand. “So if I have been ‘weird,’ as you put it, it is not your presence. Things are simply complicated.”

Silence. Nott chews her lip and drops the loosened string she’s been worrying apart. Caleb isn’t used to her being this quiet, this observant—but at least she doesn’t seem as guarded as she had been since they sat down. He pats the top of Frumpkin’s head and takes a deep breath. Might as well air out _all_ the dirty laundry.

“Very… complicated.” He lets himself trail off. Two sets of beady eyes focus on him when he stops petting Frumpkin, hand hovering about an inch off his furry ears. “I am—I am—uh.”

He wants to pull out one of those fancy German compound words that could be found in a blog post of untranslatable feelings. Like schadenfreude, but not as mainstreamed. None comes to mind, though, so Caleb has to settle for explaining his feelings in English. He hates doing that.

His hand returns to Frumpkin’s neck as he says, “I am bad with change, Mäuschen, and you arriving out of nowhere was a pretty damn big one.” That’s a pet name that hasn’t slipped out in a while, and Caleb winces. “I had not seen you in _years_ , and you hadn’t called ahead of time—”

At that, Nott’s cheeks flush and she twists back to face the TV. Almost subconscious, she brings her stubby legs up, knees tucked against her chest. She’s always done that—squeezed herself into tight spaces (visible or not) and become as compact as she could get. It might be a habit she’d picked up in an East End orphanage—Caleb doesn’t know, since she’s never volunteered and he’s never asked.

“—and I was unprepared for all of it,” continues Caleb. “To see you again, to _work_ with you, to have an assistant, to—to share my library.” It sounds a bit stupid when he says it aloud, but Nott doesn’t say anything when he pauses for breath. “To have you meet my fri—” he catches himself and freezes “—my co-workers. And to—to. Well. To notice my, um—my feelings for them.”

It’s not like she _hasn’t_ noticed, he tells himself, even as his throat dries. Is there a German word for that? He reaches into the untouched candy bowl and unwraps a Kit-Kat instead of dwelling on it. Nott’s eyes flicker to him, saucer-wide. Chewing, Caleb gives her an aside glance.

Nott lowers her head. “I—I thought so, but I didn’t—I didn’t know for sure, and I know how you get about these things—”

“‘These things’—was, emotions?”

“Yes,” says Nott flatly. “And—”

Caleb can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t bother saying anything as Nott scrunches up her face, tongue against her cheek. The petulant scowl that replaces her deadpan expression would be amusing in any other context. Here and now, it just makes Caleb’s neck fill with blotchy heat and coats his palms in sweat. Frumpkin leans away from his palm.

“I don’t trust him,” says Nott, matter-of-fact. Caleb averts his gaze to the static television screen. “I don’t know him well enough to know if I have to protect you from him. But I don’t—I don’t trust anyone else at work yet, either. Except you.” Her voice lowers, almost to a whisper.

“Ja, I know,” murmurs Caleb.

Nott swallows. “If you trust him—and the others—”

“I do.” His voice is just as low as hers had been—though he’d already told her as much, it’s still weak, a confession in its own right.

“Then I trust your judgment,” says Nott. “And I can try. I just—I just don’t want to—I don’t want _you_ to—” She makes a frustrated noise, dragging a hand through her already tangled hair.

Caleb, for once, knows what she’s trying to say. He takes a steeling breath. “Thank you, Schwesterherz. I—I know that this is difficult.” His eyes catch on the two stuffed cats sitting on the hearth—and despite the heaviness of the air around him, he grins. “He did get you a cat, you know, I would not be so harsh—”

Nott, in an instant, goes red and transforms back into his bratty sister. Muttering under her breath, she turns her back on him. Caleb’s leaning over to see what she’s doing when she swings back around—a throw pillow hits him in the arm with a startling _whump_. Frumpkin takes a flying leap off Caleb’s lap and lands beneath the coffee table, shooting a filthy look at both of them.

“Turn the TV back on, you ass—”

Holding a hand up in defense, Caleb does as she asks.

The night proceeds well enough—it’s too late for any remaining trick-or-treaters to ring the doorbell, so Caleb stays in his seat throughout the rest of _The Addams Family_. By the time the credits roll and Caleb glances over, Nott is snoring. Candy wrappers are scattered all around her. Chocolate is smeared on the corner of her lips. Her hair falls limp across her tilted face, mouth parted and nose flaring with each inhale.

Caleb smiles and flicks the television off. He lets his blanket fall away and drapes it over Nott instead. Gently guiding her to lie down, he slides a pillow under her neck and steps back.

He sees to the candy bowl next—he gathers it up and sets it high up on the hearth, somewhere even a very determined cat can’t reach. Frumpkin, having slumped down in the cat bed in the corner, glares at him. Caleb is resolutely unaffected.

Though he knows Nott can’t hear it, he murmurs, “Goodnight, Mäuschen,” over his shoulder before he heads down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! see you friday! chapter 5 is the last chapter of this first part hehe.. and yeah i'm still reeling over the wordcount (of this chapter & the work in general at this point). It Just Gets Longer Trust Me
> 
> translations:  
> \+ Viel Glück: good luck  
> \+ Entschuldigung: sorry  
> \+ was: what  
> \+ Mäuschen: pet name commonly used for children; (literally) little mouse; (figuratively) fly on the wall
> 
> also, costumes for the m9 just in case i didn't make them clear enough:  
> \+ caleb: werewolf (i started watching after the werewolf caleb theories had died down but here's my little homage to them)  
> \+ nott: wizard  
> \+ molly: vampire  
> \+ jester: demon  
> \+ fjord: angel  
> \+ beau: korra (i really love avatar. i almost made shakäste toph but got cold feet so he's matt murdock instead)  
> \+ yasha: bat
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	5. part i, chapter v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fjord and Jester throw a Thanksgiving celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say again! a lot happens for this being like a singular scene so..... Enjoy

Despite the fact that no one enclosed in the group chat celebrates Thanksgiving, Fjord and Jester send out a text invite to dinner at their place. The invitation is sent a week in advance and brief content-wise but also clearly thought out. Two postscript messages follow an edited stock image featuring the time, address, and date— _no dress code,_ reads the first. _Vegan and kosher options provided,_ says the second.

 _rsvp pls!!!_ sends Jester, a couple minutes after Fjord sends the invitation and necessary information.

It’s in the middle of the school day that they send it, so Caleb has to leave them on read while he deals with Bosun’s second graders. In the car that evening, Nott says, “Are we going to Jester and Fee-yord’s Thanksgiving thing?”

“I had not thought about it,” lies Caleb. He proceeds to RSVP for both of them at the next red light.

The next week, the first thing Caleb notices when he and Nott drive up to Fjord and Jester’s street is the scent of turkey. It wafts out into the cul-de-sac, probably contributed to by several households. Nott balances the carton of wine they’d bought thirty minutes ago on her hip as they approach. Caleb takes a breath, smooths down the button-down collar that keeps popping out over his coat, and presses the doorbell.

He instantly regrets it. He doesn’t know why he’d expected a normal doorbell from Jester, of all people, but he _doesn’t_ expect the quacking that echoes around them. Nott whistles, low.

It takes Jester a short moment to appear in the doorway, wearing a pink powder-caked apron and a bright grin. “You’re early!”

“We—we’re right on time,” says Caleb. Doubt prickles at the back of his mind as soon as he says it, so he checks his watch. Three-thirty. Exactly on time.

Nott’s eyes dart back and forth, but she lifts the carton with pride. “We brought wine!”

“Ooh, thank you! And you’re the first ones here, so that’s early enough,” says Jester, waving them inside. “Take your shoes off, by the way—leave them by the coat rack please.”

They do as she asks. There’s a prickling sensation at the back of Caleb’s mind about walking on unfamiliar carpet, but he toes his boots off and sets them neatly in a corner. Glancing around, he hovers in the foyer for a minute as Jester steps back toward the door. Silver-framed mirrors, paintings, and photographs sparkle all the way down the short hallway—to the side, the living room is visible. Somewhere further inside, a timer goes off.

Jester doesn’t seem to notice it. She hums and ushers them down the hall. Caleb takes a few uncomfortable steps while Nott whispers about how pretty and shiny the house is.

“Keep your hands where we can all see them,” Caleb hisses to her.

Nott flushes and toys with her short, messy ponytail. The door creaks back open despite Jester’s firm shove—no, it’s being _held_ open, Caleb realizes as he glances up, by someone outside—

A disgruntled Beau stands on the porch, a plastic box tucked under her arm. “Is this payback for that time almost all of Zeenoth’s weak-ass class—including Zeenoth—ended up in your office, Jester? ‘Cause that’s a long grudge to keep. And I’ve told you a billion times that wasn’t my fault.”

“Sorry,” says Jester.

“It was, a little,” says Caleb at the same time. Beau glares. “It _was_ , Beauregard.”

Nott’s frown deepens. Beau rolls her eyes and shoves forward the box. Price sticker residue is visible around the lid. Oh, so Caleb hadn’t been seeing things when he’d thought he spotted her (well, the back of her) in Safeway.

“I, uh, got bread.”

“Thank you!” says Jester, beaming and taking it. “Oh, also shoes off, please and thanks—”

This time, when she goes to close the door, there’s no one else’s face she can almost slam it into. Beau kicks off her untied tennis shoes without protest. Nott hands Jester the wine as she sweeps by. Jester snatches it and strolls down the hall, wine carton in one hand and bread box poised on the other shoulder.

“Should we have brought actual food?” Nott whispers to Caleb.

“No,” he whispers back, then reconsiders. “Possibly. But it doesn’t matter now.”

“I mean, mine was pretty cheap, so the wine was prob’ly better,” says Beau.

In unison, the three of them glance around at the luxurious decorations they can see from here and then exchange a silent look. Without another word, they follow Jester down the hall and into the kitchen. There, Fjord—wearing a thick oven mitt and a mint apron—is slowly pulling a pie out of a toaster oven. Jester has already passed by, but her humming is audible from another room.

The kitchen is just as lavish as the hall leading up to it had been, enough so that Caleb winces thinking about the several times Jester has seen _his_ kitchen. A metallic harvest wreath hangs beside the fridge. The hand towels fall into a gradient of autumnal colors and designs. Ingredients are strewn across the marble countertops. Other than that and the scattered utensils, plus a couple full plates here and there, the room seems to glow.

Beau whistles, low, and Fjord jumps at the sound. He’s set down the pie on a cooling rack by now, luckily, but his oven mitt goes flying off. He scurries to regain his composure, face crimson, though Nott has already burst into giggles.

“Sorry I, uh, didn’t greet y’all properly—” Fjord clears his throat and drags a hand through his hair. He bends and reacquires his oven mitt, steam from the pie washing over his face. “The turkey’ll be ready in just a few minutes, so just head into the dining room if you’d like.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Beau, eyeing the various delicacies across the counters. She jerks a thumb toward the opposite doorway. “That way, right?”

“Yup.” Fjord leans back against the sink.

They flock into the dining room, moving as a hivemind by this point, just in time to hear the quacking doorbell again. Beau cringes. Jester, who’d been filling the goblets around the table with Caleb and Nott’s wine, darts out again. Her apron has been left in a heap on one of the two end chairs.

There are seven seats in all, arranged strategically around a narrow table covered in empty plates and a gold tablecloth. Two chairs on the ends—then three on one side, two on the other. In spite of the asymmetry, it looks centered.

“Do we just… sit wherever?” says Nott.

Neither Beau nor Caleb answers—Beau because she’s already swung around to plop into a chair on the side with three chairs, Caleb because he’s got no clue either. Jester skips back in while they’re still considering. She brings with her Mollymauk and Yasha, along with an overflowing bouquet of orange begonias and a vegetable platter. Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb catches Beau (in the middle of sliding off her jacket) perk up. He tries not to do the same.

“Sit down anywhere except the ends,” says Jester, waving at the empty middle of the table. “I’ll be right back—”

And off she goes into the kitchen again. Caleb nods at Mollymauk and Yasha, then takes the seat beside Beau’s. Nott makes for the one on his other side at once. They’re relatively tall chairs (save Jester’s adjusted one on the end), so she slips on her first try to get into it. Gritting her teeth, Nott kicks one of the chair’s legs before trying again. …And again.

On the other side of the table, Mollymauk pauses, smile both kind and devious. “You need any help?”

“Nope, and sod off,” snaps Nott.

Beau snickers. Mollymauk continues smiling. Caleb and Yasha watch Nott’s continuing struggle politely—or, well, as politely as they can while not doing anything to help.

Nott looks over the looming chair, face scrunching with determination. Caleb can see the exact moment she gets an idea—her eyes flash and she grins. She climbs up onto the stretchers, giving herself a boost, and then twists around to land with a _hmph_ on the pillow. Mollymauk applauds.

“See!” says Nott, raising her voice over the clapping (Yasha has to close her hands over Mollymauk’s to get him to stop). “I’m an adult woman! I can get into a fucking chair!”

“Of course, dear,” says Mollymauk affably. “I never said you couldn’t.”

Another timer dings in the kitchen before Nott can challenge Mollymauk to a duel. Steam flows toward them—the oven creaks open again, and Caleb inhales at the thickening turkey odor. They chat amongst themselves as they wait for Fjord and Jester to bring out the main course. When Fjord appears, turkey clasped in his gloved hands and light from the kitchen illuminating his silhouette, Beau and Yasha cheer.

Over the next five minutes, Jester flits about, bringing a number of other bowls and platters (including a smaller turkey that must be the “vegan options,” sauces, Beau’s bread, noticeably softer homemade rolls, and Mollymauk and Yasha’s veggie tray) out. She arranges them with a certain kind of practiced precision before she sits.

“All right,” she says. “Now, we have to all go around and say something we’re thankful for before we eat. Yes, even you, Caleb.” His mouth shuts. Another opens, and a hand rises with it. “ _Yes_ , you too, Beau.”

Beau stares glumly at the warm turkey.

“Who wants to start?”

“You,” says everyone else in terrifying unison.

Jester pulls a face, but it gives way to a smile after a moment. “All right, all right, I had better see you all thinking of your things.” She glares around the table. Caleb leans back when it settles between him and Beau. “I’m thankful for my job! And all the children I work with, and all the adults too. And I’m thankful for my soon-to-be-husband,” she adds, winking across the table.

Fjord chuckles. Beau folds her arms and points out, “You’ve been saying soon-to-be for, like, five years. I mean, I assume. Since you’ve worked at the school forever and have been engaged longer.”

“Well,” says Jester, sweet smile growing sly as she looks at Fjord, “we _were_ planning on telling you all tonight, weren’t we?”

“We sure were,” says Fjord. He rubs the back of his neck, then says, “We set a date.” Everyone else in the room takes a surprised breath. Mollymauk almost chokes on his sip of wine. Yasha claps him on the back, which just makes him cough more. “We’re, uh, getting married in March. Over spring break. It’s been in the making a few months now, right, Jes?”

Jester nods. “And we want you all to come, of course, but we want you to be in our wedding party too!” She clears her throat. “Beau…”

“Yes?”

“Will you be my maid of honor?” says Jester, voice low as she reaches for Beau’s hand.

“Oh,” whispers Beau. She actually looks teary—it’s an odd expression when it’s due to sentimentality, not a finals week breakdown. Caleb smiles and stares at his plate. “Congrats, first off, holy shit, and—and yeah, of course I’ll be—” She pauses and raises her head. “One condition, okay, I’m gonna be your best woman. Not that maid of honor crap.”

Jester giggles and squeezes Beau’s hand. “That’s fine, that’s fine!”

Fjord coughs and turns to the other side. “Well, Molly, I guess that’d make you my person of honor instead, huh?”

Now Mollymauk is the deer in headlights, his lips parting in surprise. He sets his wine down with a _clink_ that overtakes the silent room. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” says Fjord, grinning.

“I—” Mollymauk licks his lips, eyes flickering around the table. Yasha gives him a short, inscrutable look—and he smiles. “I’d love to be. Thank you.”

Fjord’s grin widens. “Thank _you_. And, Caleb—” Caleb’s shoulders tense. “I would be honored if you would be one of my groomsmen.”

“Oh.” Caleb’s eyes widen, and he’s aware he’s just echoed Beau but he can’t make himself take it back now. He lifts his head to look at Fjord, fixes his gaze on his spiky hairline. Without a word, Nott reaches for his hand. Caleb holds to it like a lifeline and musters a thin smile. “I would be honored to accept.”

Relief washes over Fjord’s face. Caleb mimics his grin as best he can, then glances over as Jester clinks her wine glass against Yasha’s.

“Would you be a bridesmaid?”

Beau’s eyebrows arch. So do Yasha’s—she blushes, pink high in her pale cheeks, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “That would be—that would be nice. Thank you, Jester.”

“Of course!” says Jester brightly. Her eyes seek Nott, whose hand tightens on Caleb’s. “Nott, do you want to be a bridesmaid too? We don’t have a flower girl yet, either—I know that’s usually a younger girl, but—”

“Oh, well, uh—” Nott sputters under the attention, face bright red. Caleb covers his smile with a fist. “I—I like flowers,” she offers after a few moments of more puttering.

“Perfect!” Jester claps and raises her wine. “A toast!”

“To Jester and Fjord!” says Mollymauk at once.

“To Jester and Fjord,” the others repeat.

A scramble follows as everyone reaches across the table to toast; they try to do so without standing or stretching so far that they break something. They manage it, with a bit of creative movement. Caleb leans back to drink—he hopes for a brief moment that Jester’s forgotten the previous conversation topic in the excitement.

He should be so lucky. Jester sits up straight after she’s swallowed and bursts, “What are you thankful for, Beau?”

Beau almost spits out her wine, then groans. “Come the fuck _on_!”

“I did it!” says Jester, slamming her hands on the table. “You all have to do it too!”

“Yeah, so I’m gonna pass.”

“You can’t pass.”

Yasha, of all people, clears her throat. “You can’t think of a single thing?”

Beau stares at her, then shrinks back in her seat. “I mean, I—okay, fuckin’ all right, I guess I’m thankful for—” Her nose scrunches. “New opportunities,” she says after a pause, twirling her glass between her index and middle fingers.

“I don’t know what that means,” says Jester, “but it’s something, so I’ll let you do that. Caleb!”

“Pass,” is his gut response.

“You can’t do that.”

“Yeah, Caleb,” mutters Beau. _“God.”_

Caleb rolls his eyes. “Fine, I am thankful for books. And my library. Is that satisfactory?”

“You know, it isn’t technically _your_ library,” says Jester, while Beau snorting and offering Caleb her hand for a fistbump. He knocks his knuckles against hers and then has another _long_ sip of wine. “But fine. Nott?”

“Um.” Nott’s eyes flick between Jester, Caleb, and the platters of food before them. Her stomach growls quietly. “Shiny things. You—you have a lot of them in here, so—I’m thankful for shiny things…?” She flashes a nervous grin, jagged little teeth sparkling.

“Cute,” mumbles Yasha.

Jester shrugs. She seems to be growing resigned to the fact that she’s the only one who’ll say something heartfelt. Well, maybe except for—“Fjord?”

“I’m thankful for you, of course,” says Fjord, as if rehearsed. He glances around the rest of the table. “And the rest of y’all. I haven’t really, uh, had friends like this in a long time. So I’m grateful I’ve stumbled upon this.”

Caleb resists the urge to say _Me too_ as everyone smiles, grateful, over at Fjord, who smiles back. He doesn’t want to interrupt or bring the attention back to himself, so he stays silent and echoes everyone else’s smile. He’d be lying if he said the warm atmosphere at this table didn’t remind him of something. _Then_ and _now_ meld together as he clutches the wine glass—friends on the road to becoming more like family around him, their faces open with laughter, the constant tension in Caleb’s shoulders loosening.

( _But_ then _didn’t last_ _,_ says the voice always hovering at the back of Caleb’s mind, _so why should_ now _?_ )

Nott’s gaze burns into him, and Caleb shakes it—and his thoughts—off as Jester says, “Molly! You’re up!”

“Hm—” Mollymauk considers his wine for a good minute, then takes a quick swig. “Well, first off, I’m thankful for whoever got this wine, good God. Haven’t had red in years, and this is the good kind.”

“Caleb picked it out,” blurts Nott. “I had to buy it though, ‘cause he—” air quotes “—‘forgot’ his wallet.”

She _winks_ at Caleb. Incredibly unsubtly. Beau snorts into her wine, Jester giggles, and Fjord pretends to be coughing instead of laughing. Yasha sighs and tips her drink back.

Caleb’s face takes flame when Mollymauk’s gaze snaps to him—or had it already been hovering there? Either way, Caleb is already writing his obituary in his head. He’s tempted to write it down on a napkin just so Nott won’t write one for him.

Mollymauk smiles, slow, and says what seems like an hour later, “Then thank you two very much. Also, I’m thankful for parent-teacher conferences ending tomorrow.”

“A- _men_ ,” says Fjord. Yasha nods sagely.

Jester grins. “Last one, then we can eat.” Nott sags with her sigh of relief. “Yasha!”

“Ah—” Yasha glances around at them, toying with the beads twisted into one of her braids. “I suppose I am thankful for a mixture of what you all said. New opportunities—” she gestures to Beau with a small smile “—my job—” to Jester “—and for all of you.” A final sweep to Fjord, who grins.

“Very nice! Okay, okay,” says Jester, as Nott’s stomach growls again, this time loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Dig in.”

What ensues is what Caleb can only describe as the sounds of an entire pack of wild wolves being unleashed on a weakened deer separated from its herd. Elbows clash and silverware clatters as the seven of them push to grab their chosen sides and Fjord reaches for the turkey. Voices overlap, scaling the tonal range from polite to enraged—sometimes from the same person in a matter of seconds.

“Can you pass me the—”

“Shove over, I need—”

“Watch where you’re poking that fork—”

“Seasoning salt, please—”

“Y’all’ve gotta let me _cut_ the fucking turkey before you take it—”

“Would you, uh—would you mind passing the sweet potatoes, dear?” It takes Caleb a second to pick apart the various conversations and realize Mollymauk is talking to him—when he does, he flushes but obliges. Beau, in the middle of spooning beans onto her plate, smirks. He’s tempted to fling a cranberry at her. “Thank you!”

Despite the rough patches it opens up on, the Thanksgiving dinner itself goes smoothly once they all dish up and snag on a few good conversation topics. Nott, for her part, settles into it as soon as she’s downed her glass of wine. She laughs, jumpiness fading as the evening goes on, and ribs about with the others in a way Caleb doesn’t think she has yet.

He, on the other hand, participates just as much as is expected—when he’s dragged into the conversation or indirectly prompted to. He spends most of his time observing; Jester catches his eyes a few times and gestures to Beau and Yasha, who keep slinging comments at each other. It’s not like Caleb is great at reading social atmospheres, but something between them seems to have shifted. They’re more relaxed around one another than they have been in three months.

He resolves to ask Beau about it later, as the dinner melts into an evening gathering. They migrate to the spacious living room while Jester slices the cooled pumpkin pie. Fjord flicks through several TV channels before settling—after their synchronized cheer—on a _Mythbusters_ marathon. Jester hands out slices of pie before they find their places around the room.

Fjord and Jester take the armchair, Fjord settled precariously on Jester’s lap. It relegates the others to the couch—wide enough for five, but still a tight squeeze. Nott tucks up into herself and perches on the armrest. Caleb winds up squished between her and Mollymauk, who is in turn next to Yasha, and then Beau on the other end—though, Caleb notes, she has a considerable amount of room.

She turns after a few seconds, pie plate on her stomach, and lays her legs across Yasha’s lap. Yasha doesn’t protest it. Beau’s feet push into Mollymauk’s side, and _he_ certainly does.

“I don’t know where your feet have been,” he says in a stage whisper. “Keep ‘em on Yasha, I don’t care, but not me.”

Beau sticks her tongue out. “At least I’m wearing socks, asshole.”

Yasha drops her fork to place one hand on Mollymauk’s shoulder and the other on Beau’s. “Would you both stop acting like children and shut up?” Somehow, she says this in one of the gentlest tones Caleb has ever heard anyone use.

Beau grumbles but complies, twisting toward the television. Her feet still graze Mollymauk’s arm. He scoots closer to Caleb, who bristles. Mollymauk offers an apologetic smile.

Nott glances at Caleb, eyes boring into the side of his head. Unwavering, Caleb stares at the screen, not completely processing the episode playing. Mollymauk is very warm. A blanket dangles onto Caleb’s shoulder from where it’s pulled over Nott like a cape, but Mollymauk does a much better job of keeping him warm.

His gaze flickers to the armchair. One of Fjord’s arms falls around Jester’s shoulders; she tucks her head under his chin. Their shared blanket clings mostly to Fjord, grazing the floor, but Jester seems content even though she must be chillier than not.

“They’re really cute, huh?”

Caleb jumps, turning back to see Mollymauk’s softened eyes sliding from Fjord and Jester to him. Mollymauk smiles and tilts his head. His piercings glint in the dimmed light.

“I’m glad they finally settled on a date,” he continues, quiet enough that no one else seems to notice. “They’re already pretty much married in all but name, though.”

“Ja.” Caleb looks steadily back at the TV screen. “Jester tells everyone she meets about their engagement. Right, Nott?” he adds, shooting a somewhat desperate look up there.

“Hm?” Nott blinks down. “Oh, yep, yeah, totally.”

Mollymauk shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Caleb watches out of the corner of his eye as he turns back toward the television. Shrinking down in his seat, Caleb tries not to think too much about how nice Mollymauk’s side pressed to his feels.

Of course, he fails almost at once when Mollymauk shifts and relaxes into the couch. Caleb fidgets with his shirt collar, the patched-up but crumbling seam near the knee of his pants, the edge of Nott’s blanket, anything he can find that isn’t too obvious. Mollymauk either doesn’t notice or isn’t bothered. Beau, however, is giving Caleb a look he doesn’t get.

Nott’s gaze leaves him after a few minutes. At the next commercial break, she hops down from the couch—“I’m getting more alcohol,” she announces.

“Oh, I hear you,” says Beau, swinging her legs around. Yasha slumps. “Fjord, you got any beer?”

Fjord jolts, almost falling off Jester’s lap—he manages to right himself in time. “Yeah, uh—some Coronas in the fridge, I think?”

“Awesome.”

Beau trots off to join Nott—Caleb almost calls after her to ask for one too, then remembers he’s driving and still a little buzzed from the wine. Damn.

Taking the opportunity of the freed room on the couch, Mollymauk stretches out, joints popping grotesquely. His feet slip onto Yasha’s legs—she nudges him away with a grin and an eyeroll. Mollymauk, making a petulant face (one she ignores), returns to stretching his arms instead. He intertwines his fingers and raises them above his head and up to the back of the couch. As he does, he contorts in a languid way that makes his back jut out.

Caleb fixes his gaze to the current commercial and keeps all of his limbs tucked against his torso. He could just stay like this forever, he thinks, and become a static person for eternity. He ignores the heat that hits his ears when Mollymauk sighs.

Apparently satisfied, he settles back into his prior position. Is he closer than before? Caleb doesn’t get time to dwell on that, with Beau and Nott’s return—they clink their bottles together before they sit. Beau relinquishes more space this time, knees up but legs still slung over Yasha’s lap. Yasha strokes Beau’s calf as the next episode comes on.

After another few minutes of quiet, Caleb whispers, “Schwesterherz.” She doesn’t react. He clears his throat. “Would you please stop drinking so loudly, you are _right next to_ my ear.”

“I can’t help how loud I drink,” says Nott, not bothering to feign a whisper.

Caleb, too used to being surrounded by grade schoolers, shushes her—it ends up louder than her voice in the first place. Several seconds later, he realizes he’s done it on reflex. His face goes blank and horrified. Mollymauk snickers. Nott glares at Caleb, then continues to drink as loudly as she can. Caleb gives up and just tries to zone her out.

They’re about thirty minutes into this episode—and Nott has drained at least half of her Corona, smacking her lips together after each sip—when Mollymauk yawns. It’s getting late, after all, so Caleb thinks nothing of it until he stretches with it. An arm drops onto the back of the couch. Mollymauk’s jeweled hand grazes Caleb’s neck, sending his hair on end.

He must make a noise, or tense up, or something, because Mollymauk starts and peels his arm back. “Ah, sorry, I—”

Caleb takes a deep breath. “It’s all right,” he says, gaze still firm on the flickering screen.

Silence aside from the TV, and then a soft, “Oh.” Mollymauk’s arm falls back into place—his fingers don’t brush Caleb this time, but his arm is undeniably present. Caleb feels several sets of eyes on them. He ignores all of them, even when he hears Jester giggle and Fjord shush her, and he lets his shoulders drop. His back protests; his posture hasn’t been great for the past hour, he realizes. (Or the rest of his life.)

Halfway into the next episode, Nott’s finished her bottle. It’s obvious in her fitful giggles every time it seems like something is going to blow up, plus her lowered eyelids and bloodshot eyes beneath. Caleb watches her out of the corner of his eye after the first set of giggles. He’s grateful for it twenty minutes later—her head lolls forward, and the rest of her body follows, unfolding and tumbling forth—

Caleb catches her wrist before she pitches off the couch. Her lashes stir, but her eyes stay shut and her breathing has evened out. Had a few minutes ago, he thinks. Holding her upright on the armrest, Caleb takes a few careful breaths of his own. He only realizes he’s on his feet and the entire room is staring at him when the TV pauses.

“I,” he starts, discomfort crawling back into its home in his chest. He lets the blanket crumple off Nott and onto the floor, then clears his throat. Nott gives a weak snore. “I think she, uh—I think Nott drank a bit too much, so I suppose it is time for us to take our leave. Thank you all for a lovely evening, see you on Monday—”

Now heavily accented words running together, Caleb drops his eyes and swings Nott onto his back to carry out the weakest piggyback ride anyone in human history has given.

Mollymauk is the first to recover from the abrupt scene—he leans up, arm falling from the back of the couch to his side. “G’night, dear,” he says, lifting his voice to be heard across the room. “Take care. Tell Nott to drink lots of water.”

Caleb gives a short nod. The rest echo the well-wishes. Beau sets her beer down and slides to her feet. She tosses a pointed look over her shoulder to Yasha, who smiles thinly.

“I’ll walk you out,” says Beau. Caleb raises his eyebrows—she scoffs and stuffs her hands in her pockets. “What? Sometimes I do nice things for no reason.”

“Not very often,” says Fjord, but he lifts his hands in surrender when she glares.

The glare dies once Jester snickers, and, sheepish, Beau adds, “Also, I wanna try and walk the alcohol off. Don’t wanna wind up as shitfaced as Nott and pass out on Jester’s couch.”

“You have better alcohol tolerance than she does,” points out Caleb.

“And we wouldn’t mind,” says Jester cheerfully. “Pass out on our couch all you want. That applies to everyone.”

“Duly noted,” mutters Mollymauk.

Beau shrugs, clearly not budging, and Caleb relents. They head out to the foyer to grab their shoes (and Nott’s, which Caleb tries to maneuver onto her dangling feet for about two minutes before giving up and opting to carry them). A distinct awkwardness hovers in the air around them, and Caleb is grateful to leave the tight-aired living room and let himself breathe. _In four, hold seven, out eight,_ he reminds himself.

The attention clings to his throat even when he steps away from the situation, crisp evening air a cool relief against his face. He _knows_ that the people inside aren’t talking about them behind their backs. Logically, he knows that they wouldn’t poke fun at Nott’s drinking problem and fixation on shiny things, nor Caleb being his sister’s keeper. But still, a part of his brain whispers, _What if?_

So he pushes forward, focuses on the situation at hand. The one he can at least try to control, not what he can’t.

“What is this really about, Beauregard?” he asks when he can breathe normally again.

Beau winces. “That obvious?”

“As Fjord said, you do not do nice things for no reason very often. More recently, ja, but you are still you,” says Caleb dryly. Nott continues snoring into his coat. He hopes she’s not drooling. “And I—well. You and Yasha….”

“Jesus, we must be bad if _you_ noticed.”

Caleb can’t help but feel she’s calling the kettle black, but he says nothing. Beau bites her lip and stops walking. Caleb stops, too, tightening his grip on Nott’s poplits.

They stand in the middle of the sidewalk several feet from Fjord and Jester’s house, Caleb’s Beetle visible two parking strips away. Beau’s pickup truck—a rival to his car in pure shittiness—sits right behind it. Beau’s eyes flicker between the cars and Caleb as she runs a hand through her hair.

“So, me and Yasha—uh, the other day, me and Yasha were at the gym—”

“Yasha and I.” He can’t help himself.

Beau shoots him an irritated look, enfeebled by her red-rimmed eyes. “Me and Yasha,” she reiterates, “were at the gym. Y’know, since we’re gym buddies. And _things_ happened. So now we have this—this sorta, uh, friends with benefits setup going on.”

Caleb takes this in. It’s not a surprise. He shifts Nott on his shoulders, working to separate Beau’s voice from her soft snoring. “How long?” he asks, because _the other day_ can really mean anything.

“Couple weeks. I dunno,” says Beau. She pauses, reaching up to smooth some loose strands of hair out of her eyes. “I—I mean, not about the timing, I’ve got that fucking date marked on my calendar now.”

A stiff pause. Caleb watches her cautiously, unsure if she’s going to say anything more. Subconscious, he’s started moving again, inching closer to their cars.

“I think I actually like her.” It’s a terrified admission—Beau doesn’t whisper a lot, taking pride in the space and noise she takes up in the universe in a way Caleb never could, but this is pretty damn close. Her voice trembles. “Like. A lot. Way too much for our, uh, arrangement.”

“I see,” says Caleb, unsure what else he can. “Have you told her?”

Beau snorts, wringing her hands—she’s restless in a way he hasn’t seen since college, different from her usual bored restlessness. “Hell no. I didn’t—I didn’t know at first. When I flirt with, like, Kara or Dairon, it’s—there’s nothing there, y’know. I’m just like, vaguely attracted. And having fun. Kara’s got a nice face, Dairon’s very attractive—she’s got kinda a young silver fox thing going for her—”

“If you say so.”

Beau flashes her teeth in an uncomfortable-looking grin. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, bumping her shoulder against his. He holds tighter to Nott as Beau’s expression sobers. “And then Yasha—Yasha was hot. And… big. I’ve had dreams where she’s bigger.”

Caleb lifts a hand. “No details.”

“Please,” says Beau, rolling her eyes, “my dirty dreams are mine to cherish and mine alone. But—but yeah. I thought that was all it was, then we started going to the gym together and actually, uh, talking? And then—that.” She shoves her hands into her pockets. “And I was looking at her the other morning when I first woke up and she was still asleep, and—” A swallow. “And I just thought, _Shit_.”

Caleb hums. He recalls something similar last year—staring down at a table during one of those pesky staff happy hours. He’d been buzzed on spiked root beer and intending to get a ride home from Fjord, so everything was vivid yet fuzzy at the edges. Under the pumping music and conversation, Caleb had heard a joyous laugh down the table, and his eyes had snapped to its source. He’d been surprised how much someone could shine despite the bar’s shitty light.

His first thought, however, had been a stricken _Oh no_. Strings of German swears and prayers not intended for that context had been quick to chase it.

Flushing at the memory, his hands slip as if to mimic Beau’s, then he remembers he can’t put them in his pockets unless he wants to deepen his slouch or drop Nott. Caleb sighs and steadies her legs. He’s not sure what he can do or say to console Beau—or if that’s even what she wants.

He walks in silence, stopping at the parking strip, and his eyes narrow at just how close Beau’s pickup is to his bumper. It doesn’t look dented (or at least any more than it had been that afternoon), so he gives her a pass for now. Softly, he says, “I’m sorry. I—how about this, I will tell you something. Makes us even, ja?”

Beau scoffs. “You really don’t have to do that, man.”

“Yes, well, it is—” His mouth tightens as he struggles for the words. “It’s somewhat draining, not telling anyone.” He glances up at the sky, nearly pitch black. Thinking about Yasha pushing soup into his hands and Nott’s shiny eyes reflecting a still TV screen, he sighs. “Well, telling anyone _outright_.”

“Okay.” Beau watches him with a sharpening gaze.

Caleb takes a breath. It comes out in a heavy rush when he says, eyes on the ground, “I think it would be, uh, safe to say by now that….” He’s still dancing around it. His teeth gnash—and, tamping down on the knot in his stomach, he blurts, “I’m in love with Mollymauk.”

Beau’s face doesn’t change, nor her posture. After a beat of silence, Caleb searching her entire body for a hint of a reaction, she snorts and slugs him in the shoulder. “That’s your secret? Uh, yeah, I already know that.”

A breeze passes over, rustling Caleb’s hair and tugging at Beau’s crumpling high bun. They study each other, a silent promise shared in their slow exchange of the same simple nod. Caleb bites his cheek. He’s immensely reminded of the first time he saw Beau, wearing a snapback and Doc Martens—he’d nodded at her, hoping she recognized him as also gay and not just a fucking weirdo. (He was and is both, of course, but he’d wanted her to acknowledge the first half.)

“Goodnight, Beau,” says Caleb. His stomach is still tight and his heart is this close to thudding out of his chest, but at the same time, comfort—warm and all-encompassing—spreads throughout his body. “Nice talk.”

Beau laughs. “Night,” she says. “Hope Nott feels better.”

“…Me too.”

Before he gets into the car, Caleb watches Beau stroll back to the house. He fumbles for his keys and deposits Nott in the passenger seat as soon as he’s wrestled it open. The drive home is near silent, aside from the turned-down radio and Nott’s snoring, and introspective as Caleb is left alone to his thoughts.

Things will be okay, he tells himself, but he doesn’t know if he believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's a wrap on the first part! thank you for reading this far; i hope you'll stick with me through the rest!!! see you on tuesday for the first chapter of act two 8) it's a good part if i say so myself
> 
> (also, thank you to wibbelkind for offering german suggestions!! previous chapters have been tweaked accordingly)
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	6. part ii, chapter i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which winter comes, Beau eats expired Doritos, Hanukkah gifts are exchanged, and tears are shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. latest episode, huh [nervous laughter]
> 
> for unrelated personal reasons, i'm going to be shifting the update schedule to tuesdays only for presumably the entirety of part 2 (ie the next 5 chapters, possibly part 3 as well depending on how things are then). i don't want to get into too much detail, but as i mentioned a couple chapters ago, i've got a lot on my plate & don't want this fic's quality to suffer for it, so i'm leaving myself more time to edit! it's not an excellent solution, but it's the only one i could think of, and i hope you'll be patient with me!
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

“ _He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”_

— _Wuthering Heights_ , Emily Brontë.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Winter rolls around both slowly and all at once. The temperatures stay warm well into the end of November, but on the first of December, it starts snowing and doesn’t seem to want to stop. Within a week, Caleb wants to dismantle the very concept of indoor recess. Stormy weather is fine—unless, that is, it comes at the cost of him, three other adults at most, and over a hundred students spending thirty minutes in an enclosed space.

At least he has the relative peace of his library to resort to when he doesn’t have a class, just him and Nott in companionable silence. During the first full week of December, though, Kiri brings an end to this by strolling into the library unaccompanied by the rest of her class. On a Wednesday afternoon.

Caleb narrows his eyes as she hovers in the doorway, bundled up in a downy coat and an Angry Birds cap pulled down to her eyebrows. His hand freezes on an encyclopedia spine. Nott—who’s only had brief interactions with Kiri during regular kindergarten classes yet adores her—beams and leans over the counter.

“Hi, Kiri!” she says in what is definitely not an inside voice.

Wincing, Caleb resumes pushing books back into their regular places. He hadn’t gotten a chance to clean up after Horris’ class yesterday (nor earlier today), so he’s making up for lost time. As usual, he’s disappointed in the fourth-graders. He knows for a fact he’s told them how to properly place books—and it isn’t to shove them wherever the fuck they want. He has a _system_.

Kiri tugs her hat off, interrupting his internal rant. “Hi, Kiri,” she echoes, mimicking Nott’s voice _and_ volume. Caleb winces again.

Nott squeals. “You are _adorable_.”

Kiri’s loose grin widens. From his place beneath a stepping stool, Frumpkin stirs, and Caleb watches him trot over to Kiri. Fjord will no doubt complain when Kiri returns to his classroom covered in orange cat hair, but Kiri herself doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes widen as Frumpkin lurks over. Awestruck, she kneels once he’s a few inches away and offers a gloved hand.

Frumpkin hovers there for a moment, tail swishing, before he steps forward to sniff her palm. His head twists back to fix Caleb with a wary golden stare. He deems Kiri’s scent acceptable, apparently, turning back and giving her an approving head bump and a loud purr.

Beaming, Kiri mimics the purr. Caleb examines the shelf for any more books out of place or shoved in haphazardly—when he finds none, he breathes a sigh of simultaneous relief and disappointment. (It’s just one shelf of many, he reminds himself.) He steps off the stepstool, then toward Kiri, and scoops Frumpkin up.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, coming out a little too accusatory. He can feel Nott glaring.

“Much quieter.” It takes Caleb a second to realize she’s mimicking _him_. From over a month ago. His eyebrows rise at the big, beady eyes directed up toward him. “Whole thing is a bit much.”

She’s decent at copying his accent, though her voice is too squeaky with youth to be an exact match. Caleb chuckles and sets Frumpkin down—mostly because he’s wriggling. Kiri latches onto Frumpkin again, eyes wide as she runs her hands over his fur.

“Did you ask your teacher if you could come down here?”

Kiri nods without looking up. “Go right ahead,” she says, deepening her voice and affecting Fjord’s Texan drawl. “Just come back soon.”

“You’re really good at that,” says Nott. Caleb has to agree—he only registers he’s nodding once he’s already bobbed his head several times. Kiri blushes and lowers her head.

Caleb eyes where she’s still stroking Frumpkin. “You can hold him if you would like. He isn’t mean.” Except to him. Frumpkin tosses a look over his shoulder as if reading Caleb’s mind—sometimes, Caleb does wonder.

Kiri’s eyes go even bigger. “Hold him?”

“Ja, er—” Caleb crouches and gathers Frumpkin into his arms, testing the weight. “You have been getting too many treats,” he says, frowning. “Let me guess who—”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Nott, no one else knows where his special food is,” says Caleb. He doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s sinking down into her chair. He turns back to Kiri, whose eyes dart between him and Nott. Hopefully she’s as good at miming physical tasks as she is voices. “Here, you support his paws and torso like this. He likes being cradled like a little baby.”

“Little baby,” says Kiri. She nods in determination, gaze firmly fixed on where Frumpkin is relaxing into Caleb’s chest. After another beat—in which Caleb, absent, pats Frumpkin’s neck and receives a warm purr—she sticks her arms out.

Caleb murmurs, “All right, all right,” and shifts Frumpkin’s weight. Frumpkin’s eyes pop open in protest. Caleb continues muttering to him in German as he kneels to press him into Kiri’s cupped hands. His grip lingers until Kiri’s arms settle into the same positions Caleb’s had been. “You got him?”

“Got him.”

With a nod, Caleb takes his hands away. Frumpkin is almost Kiri’s size curled up like this, and Caleb has to fight to not laugh at Kiri’s torso being swallowed by the striped mass against it. Frumpkin’s purrs grow louder. His eyes slide shut as he arches back to sniff Kiri’s face. She giggles at the whiskers brushing her cheek.

Caleb remembers he’d been cleaning the library and straightens up—his knees crack. That’s probably worrisome, but he doesn’t have the insurance to deal with joint problems, so he ignores it and glances around. Behind the counter, Nott has pressed her cheeks into her hands and is grinning at Kiri and Frumpkin. She clears her throat and turns back to the desktop when she notices Caleb staring.

“You will have to go in about twenty minutes,” Caleb tells Kiri, eyes on the clock. “But you can stay here until Mx. Tealeaf’s class arrives.”

In an accent that sounds suspiciously like Jester’s, Kiri chirps, “Thank you—” she switches to Fjord’s “—Mr. Widogast!”

And so Kiri becomes a fixture of the library on slow days. She wanders down in between Caleb’s classes to relax or read from then on. Frumpkin isn’t always there, but when he is, she spends most of her time doting on him. Caleb can’t blame her for it—Frumpkin _is_ rather cuddly. She’s not a problem child by any means, either, which is always a benefit.

On Friday, Nott is perusing the shelves while Caleb does data entry and Kiri sits behind the counter, holding Frumpkin. Caleb’s eyes have glued themselves to his desktop screen, so he’s not completely paying attention when Nott asks, “Kiri, what kind of books do you like?”

“Books?”

“They’re literally everywhere you look, so—” In his periphery, Caleb watches Nott spin and gesture across the library. She’s moved from the choose your own adventure shelf to the lower grade nonfiction selections since he last looked up. “Do you like fairy tales? History?” Kiri doesn’t reply to either, merely continuing to pet Frumpkin. “What about National Geographic? This one’s about owls!”

“Owls,” agrees Kiri.

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Put that back where you found it when you are done, please.” He can tell Nott is sticking her tongue out. “Put that back, too.”

Nott grabs several books from that section, reading the titles to Kiri—who repeats them—as she goes. Soon, six books are landing in a heap on the counter.

“It is almost time for Dairon’s class,” warns Caleb.

“We’ll clean up,” says Nott. Caleb looks up to see both her _and_ Kiri giving him doe eyes, definitely learned from Jester. “Don’t you promote learning and reading and all that?”

Caleb stares at his various motivational posters from the Dollar Tree. He should’ve known they’d come back to bite him in the ass someday.

“Fine,” he says, waving a hand. “If you two are still reading by the time her class comes, you may continue in the hall.”

Nott grins. “Thank you!”

“Thank you!” repeats Kiri.

This, too, is likely to bite him in the ass someday, but Caleb doesn’t regret buying the posters. He doesn’t think he could make himself regret this, either.

+

Caleb’s library, whether he’d approved of it or not, has become something of a stopping place for wayward souls. After their confessions at Thanksgiving, Beau has been spending more time around him—including in the library, which she’d been in maybe once before. She takes lunch as an opportunity to spend time with him the Monday before spring break. Caleb doesn’t even have an excuse, since he’d passed his lunch and recess duty onto Nott.

“No food or drink,” he says anyway, pointing at the sign over the doorway.

Beau groans and props her feet up on one of his tables. “That’s boring, though. Girl’s gotta eat.”

“Then do it someplace else.”

Not taking her eyes off Caleb, Beau opens her lunch—which happens to be a simple bag of Cool Ranch Doritos—and tilts her head back. Caleb watches in stilted horror, like he’s witnessing a car wreck, as she pours a good quarter of the bag into her mouth without blinking. Or choking. If Caleb wanted to watch a horror movie today, he would have done it at home, but he appreciates the extra effort.

“That is disgusting,” he deadpans.

Beau lowers her head and swallows. “Yeah, kinda. I’ve had this bag in my cupboard for, like, six months, though.”

Caleb isn’t even surprised. “Why are you eating it then?”

“Didn’t wanna make anything.” Beau eyes the bag, shrugs, and pops a few more into her mouth.

“Ja, of course.” He hates that he can relate to that. “Did you actually want something, Beauregard, or did you just want to make me not eat _my_ lunch?”

Silence except for Beau’s chewing as she continues to toss dusty Doritos into her mouth. It seems like she’s doing that on instinct by now. “Nah. Just wanted to hang out.”

Caleb means to say something. All that comes out is a weakly mouthed _Oh—_ he doesn’t know if Beau even notices it, since she’s staring into the shiny blue bag. He stares at his computer screen; its inactive screensaver has come on, but he doesn’t reach for the mouse.

He considers pointing out the fact that they haven’t “hung out” on their own since college. Beau keeps chowing down on a bag of probably expired Doritos, though, and the moment passes as several stiff seconds tick away. Neither of them is good at talking. It seems like they should.

“Okay,” starts Beau, muffled. She hesitates and holds up a hand while she finishes crunching, then starts again—“We’re both pathetic pining messes and—fuck, I guess each other’s _confidants_ now. Or some gross shit like that.”

“That’s the situation, ja,” says Caleb slowly, wondering where she’s going with this.

“So tell me about Molly.” She can’t say it without making a face, but she takes a deep breath and seals an emotionless expression on. “I told you that supes personal moment when I realized I liked Yasha. What about you?”

Caleb eyes the open door. Without a word, he gets up and walks around the counter—he pulls a chair out across from Beau, whose eyebrows rise. He lays his elbows on the table and settles one of his hands across his upper arms, fingers drumming a subconscious pattern.

“April last year,” he says, pretty sure he could conjure up the actual date if he wanted. He doesn’t want to. “He laughed at a happy hour and I looked up and almost spit the root beer Jester had spiked all over Fjord. I think I ended up crying on the ride home because I had realized how repressed I’d been for the past decade.” He doesn’t think, he _knows_ , but he won’t admit that.

Beau whistles, low and impressed. She raises her Doritos as if in a toast—Caleb has nothing to toast her with, but he nods, and that seems to suffice. She tips back the Doritos again.

“That is still disgusting.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” says Beau around another mouthful, spittle and crumbs flying. Caleb dusts some off his cheeks. “But yeah, I feel that. We’re really lame, huh.”

“Very much so,” says Caleb.

On that somber note, they lower their gazes to the table. Beau continues eating stale Doritos until there’s none left—she offers Caleb some when there’s a little less than a quarter left, and he vehemently refuses. She crumples the empty bag up, louder than Caleb thinks is necessary. Her eyes dart throughout the room, seeking something. Dread settles in Caleb’s stomach.

“I swear to Melvil Dewey, if you throw that shit away in here—”

Before he can finish the threat, Beau jerks her wrist forward and the bag lands with a series of crinkles in the middle of the garbage can across the room. Beau leaps to her feet with a scream of, “TEN OUTTA TEN, BABY!”

Caleb tries not to smile. Or clap. He makes his face a perfect mask and ushers her back into her seat, muttering “shh” as students passing by cock their heads toward the dimmed library.

“Ms. Lionett?” asks a blinking Toya, ducking her head in. “Aren’t you supposed to be outside?”

Beau waves a hand. “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be outside?”

“I—no, it’s my lunch time now—”

“Cafeteria’s that way, in case you forgot.”

“I’m—I’m going to the _bathroom_.” Toya lifts a pink pass.

“Don’t torment the children,” says Caleb, staring at the ceiling, before Beau can retort. Oh, there’s a water stain up there. How fun. He drops his head and adds, “Go ahead, Toya.”

Brows furrowed at Beau, she does as he asks. Beau makes an _I’m-watching-you_ gesture at Toya’s back, then drags her finger in a cutting motion across her throat and makes a gagging sound. It might not be fake, given the number of stale Doritos she’d just eaten.

“That girl is my nemesis,” she mutters.

Caleb stares. “…Beauregard, she’s nine.”

“So?”

“You—” Caleb buries his head in his hands and sighs.

“Now, Beau, I’d better not see you threatening violence on my students,” drawls a familiar voice from the doorway. Caleb almost slams his head into the table. Mollymauk peers in, one hand on the open door frame—he’s blank-faced for once, but it doesn’t hold for long when he glances to the side. “Ah, Caleb! So that’s why Nott is wrapped up in ten coats on the basketball court.”

Beau shoots Caleb a capital-L Look—it could be pity, it could be inquisitive about Nott’s health, it could be along the lines of _So why are you in love with this asshole again?_ It could be any number of things, given Beau. (And he would have several answers to that question, he really would, but ones he’s not sure he can articulate while Mollymauk is _standing_ there.)

Caleb points to Beau at once. “I am not affiliated with her.”

Beau squawks, “Traitor!” and smacks him on the arm—hard. Caleb hisses and shrinks back, rubbing his bicep.

“I’d tell you to go to Jester,” says Mollymauk, raising his studded eyebrows, “but Beau bribed her to take her recess duty, so I don’t know when she’d be able to help.”

“I didn’t _bribe_ her, Molly. God.” Beau rolls her eyes and leans back. She usually gets that look before she flips someone off.

Caleb sighs. “We are in an elementary school. Don’t get any ideas.”

Beau continues giving him that Look, but relents, muttering something that sounds like, “Okay, Mr. _German-swears-in-the-middle-of-the-cafeteria_ —and _English_ in the library—”

“Entertaining as this is,” deadpans Mollymauk, “I’ve gotta go. Yasha is very likely to leave me behind if I don’t, so—” A furious buzzing comes from his pockets. He winces. “That’ll be her. Oh, Caleb, dear—”

Beau’s Look sharpens. Caleb jumps to attention, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Mollymauk falters, hand on the back of his neck. After an awkward few seconds, he says, “If you would please dissuade your friend here from attacking my students, that’d be great, thanks.”

And, with a blinding smile, he saunters away. His footsteps echo down the hall and toward the staircase, and Caleb is only aware he’s craning his neck to watch him disappear from sight when Beau snickers. He feels like shriveling up and dying.

Beau pats his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, I hate him.”

“Why—why would that be consolation?”

“Oh, uh, I dunno, actually. I wanted to at least try and console you ‘cause you had that _I’m going to die_ look on, but I couldn’t think of anything, sooo….”

Caleb rubs his eyes. Deep breaths, deep breaths. “Beauregard.”

“Yeah?”

“Please do not try to console anyone, especially me, ever again.”

“Duly noted.”

+

As winter break creeps closer, so does the deadline of Nott and Caleb’s arrangement. Nott grows antsier and antsier by the day. Caleb, on the other hand, pushes himself to focus on other things— _I’m working_ is his readied excuse at any given moment. Enveloping himself in work is far from atypical of him, especially around breaks, so he’s not sure anyone pays too close attention to his renewed interest in inventorying.

And then there’s Hanukkah. He hasn’t gotten to celebrate it with Nott in years—the most he’s done since he moved to Zadash is go to the local Reform synagogue’s prayer services. Those hadn’t been _bad_ , per se, just as stuffy as the other times he visited. An autistic man with social anxiety and PTSD in a room full of people he only sees a few times a year is far from an excellent idea. So he supposes he’s relieved he’s able to stay home with a family member this year.

The first night, after he and Nott get home from work, Caleb anxiously watches the sky outside. He gathers up the menorah he’s had tucked away in his closet while he waits for the light to fade. For a long few moments, he hovers in the doorway and considers what to do to pass the time—reading is his mind’s first suggestion, but in the end, he just stuffs some ready-made food into the oven. In turn, Nott watches him pace around the living room but doesn’t say a word. Frumpkin had dove under Caleb’s bed the second he opened the closet. (Caleb wishes he could do the same.)

When night finally falls, Caleb sets up the menorah and places the first candle and the shammash. He’s already counted them—and the whole box—but his eyes flicker over them anyway. “One, two,” he mumbles.

From the couch, Nott says, tentative, “Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” says Caleb. He mutters the three blessings, then moves to light the candles. His gaze burns around the edges as he flicks the lighter on to light the shammash. The fire wobbles—for several seconds, he just stares at it.

“Caleb,” murmurs Nott.

Caleb clears his throat and clasps his hands together over the lighter. It’s been a while since he’s had to light candles in front of someone else, especially Nott. Now, he’s not sure how to deal with the fire in his hand—it’s a small one, sure, but these things can easily grow out of hand.

Before he can get too in his head, Caleb shuts his eyes. He lights the helper candle—just a quick press of the fire to its tip. He exhales as soon as he can kill the flame and snap the lighter shut.

Okay. Okay. Nothing is burning, save for the candle in his hand, and it’s supposed to be. Caleb lowers one hand to his knee and clutches the shammash with the other. Slow, he tips it forward to light the first candle. He slots the helper candle in its high center place. It shudders with the swift motion, and Caleb’s stomach drops, but it doesn’t spill.

He’s fine. Nott’s fine. The house is fine. Caleb lets his other hand fall as he focuses on his breathing.

He and Nott sit there for the next few minutes in silence, fixated on the flickering fire and its reflection on the window. Nott curls her hands above the candles—it’s not too warm, but Caleb doubts she’s doing it in search of warmth. He keeps his hands in fists on his thighs. When he stands and unballs his hands, he finds reddened nail marks on his palms.

Over dinner, he finds his voice enough to tell Nott the story of the miracle of the light. He knows she’s heard it before, and he isn’t sure if she still believes it—or ever had—but talking about it is calming. It reminds him of the same warm feeling of listening to his parents tell it, watching the bobbing lights in the windowsill. Of the time when the mere thought of those lights didn’t send him into a panic. He shakes the memories off, letting them roll off his shoulders and finishing his freezer-burnt latkes and brisket in silence.

The evening trickles away. After dinner, they sing; or rather, Caleb starts and Nott follows at the top of her lungs. She doesn’t know the words to “Ma’oz Tzur” (in any language) and he doesn’t know the English translation, not to mention neither of them can sing, so they warble in fumbled, off-tune Hebrew. They’re both beaming by the end, though—once it’s done, they exchange one look and then burst into uproarious laughter.

“Hey,” says Caleb when his ribs stop hurting, “I have something for you, Schwesterherz.” There’s still a hint of a laugh in his voice, but it’s intelligible. He hopes.

Nott coughs but straightens up. Caleb hesitates, then reaches into his pocket and comes up with a handful of foil-wrapped chocolate coins. Her eyes go wide at the small shiny things—wider still when Caleb dumps a few into her cupped palms. Immediately, she peels the foil off one and pops it into her mouth.

It’s only after she’s swallowed that indignant recognition crosses her face. “Aren’t these for kids?”

Caleb ruffles her hair. “Ja, they are.” At her pout, he raises his eyebrows and says, “Should I take them back and hand them out to the children at school instead?”

“You—you don’t have to do _that_ ,” says Nott quickly, shaking her head. “I mean—I—thank you, Caleb.”

“Of course,” says Caleb. He glances at the living room clock and gets to his feet, muttering a soft, “Goodnight, Mäuschen.”

Before he gets too far, Nott tugs on the back of his shirt. Her eyes flash when he glances down—and then down to her outstretched palm. One piece of gelt sits there. The rest, he notices, are still in her other hand. Caleb opens his mouth—

“I don’t have anything to give you yet,” says Nott, quiet but decisive. Her gaze falls to the carpet. “So this is just a placeholder. But I—I _will_ have a better gift soon.”

Hand fisted at his side, Caleb bends down to pluck the wrapped coin from her. He hovers there uncomfortably for a beat—

And then he surges forward to pull Nott forward and wrap his arms around her. He hugs her tight, in a way he hasn’t in years, gelt-holding hand tucking around her back. She inhales, and he shuts his watering eyes. A small hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Stringy hair brushes against his chin as Nott lowers her head.

“You have given me plenty,” says Caleb, in little more than a hoarse whisper. “Danke, Schwesterherz. I—” He swallows. He doesn’t say it a lot, and the English words won’t fit right on his tongue, but—“Ich liebe dich.”

Nott pulls back, blinking. “Yeah. Me too,” she says, soft and smiling. There are a comfortable few seconds of silence, then Nott clears her throat. “G’night, Caleb. Happy Hanukkah.”

Caleb smiles and straightens up, chocolate coin burning into his clenched palm. With a simple nod, he heads off to bed.

(He forgets about Frumpkin being under his bed until he slumps onto it—he’s brutally reminded when Frumpkin shoots out from underneath with a series of peevish meows.

“You are very loud,” Caleb tells him.

The complaints only grow louder. Caleb sighs, holds his pillow over his ears, and rolls over with a huff. It still takes him close to forty minutes to fall asleep, but that’s not so far off from usual, so Caleb takes it as a win.)

+

Over the next few nights, they proceed more or less the same—they eat together, play dreidel (Nott loses every time but always has all the gelt back by the end of the night), and sing horribly. Nott offers to take over the candle lighting each night. Caleb continues lighting them each night. His hands shake less, but he sweats just as much.

On the Friday before winter break starts—the fourth day—Nott plasters herself to Caleb’s side. At most given moments, he can feel her eyes on him.

“Nott,” he says finally, after Dairon’s class leaves, and her head snaps up. “We will speak later. I have not forgotten, nor will I any time soon.” His tone is harsher than he means it to be, but it’s not even lunch yet, and he can’t focus on finishing this month’s data entry with her hunched over his shoulder. He glances back—she’s stepping away—and adds, “Do not worry about it, Schwesterherz, okay?”

Rich, coming from him, but Nott stares at her shoes and nods. Caleb turns back to his desktop. Through the following hour, she stops smothering him outright, though her eyes still flicker to him every couple minutes. He’s able to power through his work nonetheless—he looks up when the lunch bell rings, ready to ask her to take his duty so he can wrap it up, but he stops with a quick glance around.

Because Nott is nowhere to be seen. Even with her height, she’s hardly easy to miss, and he can’t see _or_ hear her.

Huh.

 _Have you seen Nott?_ he texts to Ornna. He would stop by the office in person, but as it’s going, he’s already late to his recess duty in the playshed. He _hates_ the playshed.

It’s not the rain or snow’s fault, he thinks as he flips his hood up and sighs, that third to fifth graders don’t know how to handle indoor recess. He steps into a mud puddle on the way in. That’s fine. In fact, it gives him an excuse to stand there and take the tranquility in.

Outside is so quiet, with the relaxing _tap-tap-tap_ of rain falling all around him. It’s a far cry from the noise drifting out from the playshed—the squeaking of shoes, laughter of students (and Beau), and smacking sounds all contribute to the unmistakable sound of a dodgeball game. He takes a steeling breath and walks forward.

As soon as he pushes the doors open and steps inside, Caleb wants to tighten his hood and shrink into a corner. So he does. He weaves, practiced, around the center of the playshed-wide dodgeball game, ducking a handful of rubber balls. Jesus, these children throw hard, but he makes his way safely to a quiet corner and leans against the shelf filled with dusty board games.

With nothing else to do but keep a casual eye on the kids in this area (not many of them), he takes his phone out again. His brows crinkle at the notification on his lockscreen.

Ornna has replied, and it’s several kinds of concerning. _Yeah, she went to lunch w/ Molly_ , says the message he unlocks to. Caleb stares at his screen for several seconds. Without sending anything back, he shoves his phone back in his pocket.

It doesn’t escape everyone’s notice. Beau, parka wrapped around her waist and cheeks flushed with heat somehow, sidles up to him. “Hey, no phones at school.”

Off to the side, a group of students who’ve admired Beau since her arm wrestling feats at Halloween snicker. Caleb sighs and flicks her in the arm with as much strength as he can muster—his fingers hurt, Beau doesn’t even blink. That’s just their dynamic, he supposes.

“No challenging me in front of children,” retorts Caleb. “Also, it is away now, is it not?”

“Ehh, touche.” Beau rolls her eyes and blows her whistle. Right in Caleb’s ear. “Oi, you!” she yells across the gym, _also_ right in Caleb’s ear. “You get hit, you’re out! And what’d you just do? Yup, you’re out, pal. That’s right, slink away.”

Caleb stares at a worn area across the shed. He’s lost hearing in his right side for the next few minutes. “Gǔndàn,” he mutters, and Beau sticks her tongue out before she dashes off again.

He almost forgets about the mystery of Nott and Mollymauk for the next forty minutes, since his main priority becomes avoiding getting in the line of fire. Or standing near Beau. He’s brutally reminded, though, when Nott returns cradling a suspicious package after lunch. She scurries in and scrambles to stuff it under the counter, eyes darting around, while Caleb is sitting behind the counter.

“Hallo, Nott—”

She squeaks and jumps—almost bumps her head on the counter, but dodges it just in time. Scowling, she jabs an accusatory finger in his direction. “You—you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t.” Caleb stares at the ceiling. “If anything, you sneaked up on me. I was here when you walked in, Schwesterherz—” He remembers the past hour, and his mouth drops into a frown. “Where did you go off to?”

“I went to buy something. It isn’t for you,” she adds quickly.

“…Okay.” Caleb decides not to point out the fact that she’s a terrible liar and exhibiting countless examples of shady behavior right now. He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the door. Yasha’s class should be in at any minute. “Please just tell me you did not steal whatever that is.”

“No! I—I mean, I was tempted, but—no! I didn’t steal _this_.”

He doesn’t like the emphasis there and opens his mouth. Before he can push it, footsteps from down the hall draw closer, until Yasha pokes her head in the door. Nott already looks ready to bolt from the room, so it might be for the best. He sighs and gestures the clamorous class inside, unease hovering in his shoulders.

Silent for once, Nott goes to shelve books while Caleb reads from _Stone Fox_ (it’s not a good book, but it’s the first one he grabs) and talks about his winter holiday display. He’s done that _so many times_ this week. Though he likes talking about it well enough, he’s still had to tell nine rarely interested classes about it, then repeat the information to anyone who asks. Perfect memory and love of books or no, it’s starting to drive him up the wall.

But Yasha’s class comes and goes without chaos beyond that of a typical fifth grade class. Caleb returns to his day-long hobby of ignoring Nott’s eyes on him—plus ignoring the package she keeps surreptitiously checking up on. He just hopes it isn’t anything alive.

There’s a school sing-along assembly that afternoon, but Caleb declines Jester’s cheerful invitation for him and Nott to attend. He’ll hear it from downstairs anyway, he tells her, which is true. He knows it from experience.

Jester pouts. “Fine, but one of these years, I swear….”

If that doesn’t fill him with dread, he’s not sure what does. During the next half hour, he ends up giving up on work because of how loud “Silent Night” and “Jingle Bell Rock” are. Caleb sighs in relief when the singing stops. It’s soon replaced with the footsteps of three-hundred children and their teachers, though, and that’s definitely worse.

That night’s blessings and candle lightings are before sundown, so right when Caleb and Nott get home he hurries to attend to them; first the menorah, then the electric Shabbat lights. He and Nott eat in uncomfortable silence. The first thing Caleb says, after it’s already done, is, “Would you mind washing the dishes? I have to go get something.”

Nott doesn’t verbally reply but nods, and Caleb takes the opportunity to speedwalk to his room. He unearths the presents he’d bought weeks ago and had been ignoring the existence of—a jar of buttons and a set of shiny silver septum rings. He could do one tonight and one another day, he supposes, but he carries both out to the living room.

When he walks back out, Nott’s sitting back on the couch, the suspicious box sitting in her lap. Caleb tucks both his hands behind his back and eases into the seat beside her. She looks up, startled, and tightens her grip on the box.

“Sorry for just giving you gelt before,” he murmurs, holding out the unwrapped presents.

“Oh—I—” Nott’s eyes widen. She takes the presents gingerly, one in each hand, like they’re worth millions apiece. To her, they might as well be. The jar makes a pleasant clinking sound as she rattles it. Eyes going even bigger, Nott lifts her head. “I don’t—um—I don’t mind the gelt, really, but—thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, Mäuschen.” Caleb studies the bright smile on her face. He can’t quite swallow a small grin of his own.

Nott keeps the buttons in her lap but sets the nose rings on the coffee table. Licking her lips, she holds out the mystery box. It’s more nondescript than Caleb would expect out of something shrouded in such secrecy. The sparkly red bow tying the lid on is the only thing that sticks out—the rest is more or less a normal black box.

“Molly helped me pick this out,” says Nott, eyes intense on Caleb’s face. He raises his eyebrows and sits back. “So—so thank him, too. I mean—I know you will, but _I_ forgot until just now, so—”

“Nott,” says Caleb, and Nott’s jaw snaps shut, “it is all right. I am sure Mollymauk would appreciate it, no matter how long it takes.”

He’s not actually sure of that; it doesn’t clear up the sweat visible on Nott’s forehead, but it doesn’t make her clam up more, so it seems okay. He holds his hands out. Though Nott hesitates, fingers tensing on the lid, she passes it forward. It isn’t as heavy as he’d had expected either. He gives the box a little rattle—nothing.

Caleb’s eyes flicker up, scanning Nott’s face for any further reaction. He finds nothing. Exhaling, he pats the sides of the box. There’s a sneaking suspicion at the back of his mind that it’s just a gag gift—it’s ungrounded, since he doesn’t think Nott would be able to keep a straight face this long, but it’s still there. He shuts his eyes, pops the lid off, and opens his eyes to see—

A smaller box. His lips twitch. “Thanks, Arsch.”

Nott whips a chocolate coin out of her pocket and flings it at him—practiced from today, he ducks, and it goes flying toward a bookshelf instead. Caleb winces at the _clink!_ but doesn’t turn to see where it’s landed. Judging from Nott’s expression and the way she jumps to her feet, that’s not the smartest decision.

“Open the little one!” says Nott over her shoulder, already halfway across the room to pick the coin up.

Frumpkin, curled up under the coffee table, has barely opened an eye. Caleb snorts and obliges, muttering a “ja, ja.” He freezes as soon as he lifts the second box’s lid.

A pile of brown and tan fabric is curled up inside—a coat, Caleb realizes, and fur-lined from what he can see. Cautious but intrigued, he lifts it out of the package. Silky faux leather spills over his hands as he smooths it out. It’s a bit large, but so is his current one, because he appreciates the little bit of extra weight on his shoulders, and this one isn’t nearly as shabby. Caleb runs his hands down the insulated sides, admiring the texture.

Nott plops down beside him, gelt—now soggy—retrieved. “Do you—do you like it?”

“It—it’s good,” says Caleb quietly. He splays the coat across his lap, letting it stretch out from knee to knee, and smiles at Nott. His cheeks ache. “It is very nice, Nott. Thank you.”

“Not just me,” says Nott, pink-faced. “I—your coat is good, and I love it, but it’s kinda gross. You’ve had it since—” She stops, paling again.

 _Since Mom and Dad died,_ Caleb hears anyway, but it doesn’t hit him the same way it would’ve a few years ago. He wants to point out that almost all of Nott’s clothes are secondhand, and she complains when he cleans himself up, so she can’t really comment on the coat. His mouth stays shut.

With an emphatic throat clear, Nott brushes the sudden discomfort off. “So! This one is as close to a match as I could find—I promised I’d get you something, didn’t I?” Eyes flinty, she bites her lip. “You—Molly said something today when we were out, and I was thinking—”

“That is dangerous,” mutters Caleb.

Nott ignores him. As she continues talking, her voice lifts. “You think you don’t deserve nice things and I don’t—I don’t know why. I mean, I do, kinda, but—but you’re the nicest person I know.” Caleb would beg to differ, but he doesn’t say so, taking in Nott’s red-faced outburst with wide eyes and balled fists. “You’re my brother and my best fucking friend, you—you Arschloch—” her accent is awful “—and nothing, and I mean _nothing_ , is totally your fault. And you don’t deserve to suffer for it. So—so just—” She cuts herself off with a sniffle. Caleb is slightly horrified to realize she’s crying—even more so to realize _he’s_ crying, too. “Let people be nice to you, okay?”

Caleb stiffens, pinned in place by her teary gold gaze and the apparent fact that Mollymauk and Nott’s lunch break had been a shopping trip _and_ the planning of an intervention. He reaches up and swipes his shirt sleeve across his face. If he acknowledges the tears for more than a second, he’ll lose coherency for the rest of the night, and he really can’t do that. Not yet. His arm falls back to his side while he opens and shuts his mouth.

He wants to argue with Nott, to tell her how wrong she is, but—

“Thank you, Nott,” is what he says, in a whisper, eyes falling to the boxes filling the space between them. He clings to his new jacket’s sleeve just to hold onto something, his thumbs stroking its soft surface. “I—I—let me make this clear. I do not believe you, and—and I do not think I will for a long time, if ever. But I….”

He swallows down the lump in his throat. When he glances up, he’s almost taken off guard by the tears streaming down Nott’s reddened face. She’s leaned forward, hands white-knuckling her knees. Caleb wipes his face again.

“You have been trying so hard with everything,” he continues, quieter still, “so I can try too. To let people be nice.”

Nott sniffs, loud, and takes a deep, snotty breath. She tucks her legs up into herself, shoulders hunching in like she’s embarrassed of her little speech now. “That’s—that’s good,” she says. “Um. You can fire me now if you want.”

Caleb’s head snaps up. “Why would I do that? Now, of all times?”

“You know, um.” Nott stops, rubbing her eyes, and quirks her head. “I don’t actually know?”

Despite himself, Caleb laughs, and after a minute, Nott does too. He has to cover his mouth to keep himself from completely losing it—there are still tears on his cheeks, and fear in Nott’s eyes, and—

“I am not going to _fire_ you, Schwesterherz,” he says. “I never had any intention of—of doing that. You can stay my assistant as long as you’d like.”

“Ruh—” Nott coughs and drags her sleeve across her nose, leaving a thin stain. “Really?”

“Of course.” Caleb reaches across the distance to take her hands and squeeze them, gentle as he can. “I am—I am sorry for making you worry about that,” he adds, looking down. “But ja. If you really would like to remain my assistant, I would be happy to have your help.”

Ignoring the jar and two boxes between them, Nott launches herself forward to drape her arms around Caleb’s shoulders. Taken aback, he sniffs and pats her back. They sit there for a few beats, both a little uncomfortable between the physical contact and the sharp edges of boxes and lids jutting into them. It doesn’t take long for Nott to let loose a string of swears and wrench back.

“Fuck off, you cardboard assholes,” she shouts as Caleb bursts into more hysterical giggles, “I’m having a moment!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, see you next week!
> 
> translation:  
> \+ gǔndàn (滾蛋): go away
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	7. part ii, chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fjord and Jester hold another holiday celebration, questions are asked, and mistletoe is utilized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying a different format with summaries i guess? idk i'm tired & getting right into working on another project (like three of them actually :pensive:) as soon as i post this so it's going up a lil early! enjoy!

By Sunday morning, Fjord and Jester have sent out a text invite to a “cozy winter break celebration,” spiffy enough that Caleb wonders how far in advance they’d been planning it. It’s on the solstice instead of Christmas (which, as far as Caleb knows, no one on the invite list celebrates). _Dinner and a white elephant exchange,_ promises a neat script heading.

He and Nott—who he has to persuade to bring a present of her own—manage not to be the first ones there this time. (Though that’s in part because Caleb’s car has to take ten minutes to unfreeze and he’s awful at driving in the snow.) There’s a snow-flecked black Harley on the curb that Caleb recognizes as Yasha’s, and when Fjord opens the door with a welcoming smile, both Beau and Yasha cheer from the living room. Caleb peeks in to see them sprawled across the couch, legs lazily intertwined. He can’t help but note the absence of Beau’s pickup outside.

Fjord’s eyes flicker upward to the top of the door frame, and his mouth twists. Caleb glances up. A clipping of mistletoe dangles not far from Fjord’s forehead, well over the tops of his and Nott’s heads.

“Be glad Jes didn’t open the door,” says Fjord darkly. He plasters his smile back on and gestures inside. “Shoes off, coats off if you want. Is that a new one, Caleb?”

As Nott hangs hers up on the rack, Caleb’s hands tighten around the small gift box in his hands. “I—ja, Nott got it for me. With Mollymauk’s help,” he adds before she can.

Fjord blinks, and then a sharper grin spreads across his face. “Well, it’s very stylish,” he says, nodding. He slides the door shut, cutting off the rush of cool air, and waves them toward the living room. “Jes is finishing up in the kitchen, so I’m gonna go help, but y’all can sit wherever. We’re eating out here, not in the dining room, so. Oh, and leave your gifts by the tree.”

He claps Caleb on the shoulder, rocking him a little as Nott squawks in surprise, and then heads toward the kitchen. Caleb and Nott hover in the entryway for another few seconds, left to gaze around the dazzling house once more.

There is, in fact, a tree sitting a couple feet away. A tall—its tip grazes the ceiling—and artificial—given its leaves are several shades of blue, purple, and silver—one. It suits the rest of the bright colors in the house. Ornaments and tinsel line the tree from top to bottom, and a deep blue rug—already containing four presents—sits under it.

Caleb realizes Nott has handed him her gift box only after she’s already strolled away. With a sigh, he kneels to place both the gifts under the tree.

Straightening up, Caleb nods toward Beau, who slings a smirk back. Fjord and Jester have evidently done some redecorating to accommodate for the tree and other wintry decorations (a banner here, snowflake charms dangling from the ceiling there)—two armchairs now sit nestled on either side of the couch. Caleb settles down in one armchair. Instead of taking the other or the space Beau and Yasha have cleared off on the couch, Nott plops down crossed-legged at his feet. She’s on her phone within seconds.

Beau stretches back out on the couch, disentangling her feet with Yasha’s. “‘Sup. How’s winter break going?”

“Good,” says Caleb, and it isn’t a lie nor a half-truth for once. He forgets small talk etiquette for a second before he remembers to say, “Yours?”

A short pause, during which Beau glances at Yasha and grins. “Good, yeah.”

Yasha chuckles. She drapes an elbow over the armrest of the couch and twists her legs to rest on the floor, other elbow slinging across her thigh. “Molly mentioned a shopping trip with you, Nott,” she says. “Didn’t say what they got, just that you were—how did he put it—”

“Whatever he said, it was slander,” blurts Nott, not even looking up from her phone.

“That so.” Yasha’s eyebrows lift. She looks up toward Caleb and quirks her head. “Nice coat. Did Nott or Molly pick it out?”

Nott’s lip twitches, but she doesn’t answer. Caleb knees her in the shoulder. Ah, so there are benefits to this position, he thinks as Nott jolts and turns to glare at him. “I did,” she says to Yasha.

“Hmm. Good job.”

“Why _hmm_? I can have good taste in clothing!” Immediately after she says it, though, her eyes drop down to her own clothes—a baggy shirt (one from teenage Caleb) over a pair of patched jeans and worn-out boots, plus a colorful and clashing button necklace Caleb is pretty sure is homemade and from several years ago. Her face scrunches.

Yasha, impassive, continues to stare. Beau snickers.

“Okay,” says Nott, dropping her phone, “Molly may have picked out a _few_ , but I picked this one out of those!”

“I believe you,” says Yasha.

“What do you mean, it’s the _truth_ —”

Caleb snorts into his palm as Beau continues snickering. Yasha’s head tips to the side, long braids sweeping down her shoulder, and Nott’s squawked protests fall silent. Before tensions can rise, the doorbell rings, and everyone in the room groans at the quacking.

Jester darts out into the foyer, a blur of blue and purple. A gust of cold air blows in when she opens the door. Caleb tucks his limbs in and shivers. Jester’s high-pitched squeal follows the soft _whoosh_ of air.

“Hi, Molly!”

“Hello, dear—”

Caleb and Yasha glance toward the foyer at the same time. Mollymauk, in a colorful array of a high-collared coat that grazes his calves and a vibrant scarf patterned with small crescent moons, is standing there, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. The top of a sequined shirt is visible just above the coat’s neckline. A gift bag topped with bright foil paper presses against his chest. His smile is loose, unfitting of the flashy ensemble—his hair, on the other hand, is a matching bright blue that fades to white at the tips, and wild like it’s either been blow dried or ruffled by the wind. _Soft,_ Caleb thinks, fingers itching, and he quickly averts his gaze.

Jester giggles and says in a stage whisper, “You’re late. Were you buying a last minute present?”

Mollymauk lifts a hand. “You’ve caught me. No, sorry,” he adds, tugging off his boots, “I got stuck in traffic. Lots of folks out traveling, and most of the roads are covered—you know how it is.”

“I don’t,” says Jester, breezy, “but you’re here now, so it’s fine! Food’ll be ready in a few, you can go socialize in the living room.” She escorts him in, dusting off her half-apron before she scurries back into the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mollymauk shrugs off his coat as he saunters in—he has to double back to drape it over the rack, but he returns after a brief moment. Caleb glances back down at the top of Nott’s head as he tucks his gift bag beneath the tree.

Beau leans forward. “Hey, asshole.”

Smirking, Mollymauk mimes tipping an imaginary hat. “Top of the morning to you,” he says, accent thickening.

Beau’s eyes narrow. She looks like she’s regretting saying anything now. “Fuck you, it’s almost four.”

“Ah, good, that’s happy hour.” Still smiling, Mollymauk nudges Yasha aside to flop onto the couch. One leg folds over the other. Yasha goes without protest, maybe because it gets her closer to Beau. “How are you all this fine afternoon?”

“Well, I _was_ good,” says Beau cheerfully, “then you showed up.”

“Sorry, how is everyone except Beau?” says Mollymauk. Yasha snorts. “How are—hm. How are _you_ , Caleb?”

Caleb jumps at being put on the spot—he blinks up at Mollymauk, whose toothy smile softens. “Um. Fine?” He picks at his sleeves, which reminds him—“Oh, ah, thank you for helping Nott with this coat, by the way. I—well, it was a very thoughtful gift, and I appreciate it. Very much.”

Mollymauk’s eyes widen, and he rubs his neck. “Well, anything for a good friend. I’m glad you like it, Mr. Caleb.”

Beau coughs, then turns it into a series of _very_ fake hacks. “Would you look at that,” she intones through another set of coughs, “I’ve been poisoned by the sexual tension in the room.”

Mollymauk reaches across Yasha to flick Beau in the arm and gets Yasha’s hand on his face, gently but firmly pushing him back, for his troubles. Caleb stares at his lap. Nott covers her startled laugh with an unconvincing sneeze.

“I’m gonna go check on Jes and Fjord,” continues Beau, ignoring Mollymauk (who looks like that’s never happened to him before). “Yasha, will you carry me there?”

Yasha sighs and takes her hand off Mollymauk’s face. “Pay me five bucks.”

“Oh, Beauregard,” says Caleb, fighting the warmth in his face, “you wanted to be a sugar baby in college, but now it seems you have become a sugar daddy.” Sugar mommy? Sugar parent? He doesn’t know.

Mollymauk snorts and plucks a few sequins off his sleeve. They tumble onto the floor—Caleb almost says something, then he remembers it’s Jester’s floor, which might have sequins embedded into it. Nott jabs her screen, seeming to zone out their conversation. (A smart decision. Caleb wishes he could do the same, but he’s dug his own grave, he supposes.)

Beau flips Caleb off without looking away from Yasha. “Put it on my tab.”

“What fucking tab?” says Yasha.

“Uh, the one I’m staring right now,” says Beau. “Duh.”

Yasha gives her a considering look. She glances to her other side at Mollymauk, who’s turned his stare to the opposing wall. With an even greater sigh, one that makes Nott look up, Yasha gets to her feet. Beau looks like she’s hyperventilating. Her eyes go wide and sparkly— _Really?_ she mouths as Yasha shoots Caleb the flattest look he’s ever seen on her.

In several quick motions, Yasha tucks one hand under Beau’s knees and another under her back, and then sweeps her up into a loose bridal carry. Beau gasps, arms coming up to circle around Yasha’s neck. Mollymauk claps. Caleb raises his eyebrows at Yasha.

Despite her opposition, Yasha doesn’t seem to mind carrying Beau. Beau clings to her neck, almost literal stars in her eyes. As Yasha strides toward the kitchen, Beau peers up from behind her shoulder, mouthing something unintelligible at Caleb.

“That was dramatic,” mutters Nott.

Mollymauk, who’s taken the opportunity to spread out on his back on the couch, snickers. “Hey, you’re one to talk. Whipping out a knife and demanding I drive you to a store with nice clothes—”

Nott goes red. “It didn’t happen like that—”

Eyes narrowing, Caleb leans forward. “Knife?”

“All in the past,” says Mollymauk breezily. Nott nods, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

“Nott,” says Caleb, low. “Have—how—nein, you know what, I do not think I want to know.”

“Good choice,” says Nott. Mollymauk cackles.

They’re interrupted by several beeps and a yell from the kitchen—“Hey! You two! Mistletoe!” Fjord’s unmistakable sigh follows it, then a mutter Caleb can’t make out from here.

What he _can_ make out, as he shifts back in his armchair, is Beau and Yasha in the kitchen doorway, mistletoe brushing Yasha’s head. Yasha looks apprehensive—Beau, like she’s about to pass out. Caleb hopes he doesn’t have to write her obituary if she dies because she got carried _and_ kissed by Yasha in front of other people.

“Uh,” says Beau eloquently. Her clasped hands tense on the back of Yasha’s neck. “It _is_ tradition?”

“In _my_ tradition,” says Yasha, though a slow smirk is creeping across her face, “the god Baldr was slain by mistletoe. But I digress.”

“Y’all really don’t have to—”

“Yes they do,” says Jester.

_“Jester.”_

Her pout is obvious in her next words. “Okay, fine, if you _really_ don’t wanna—”

Ignoring the two completely, Beau and Yasha have already leaned in to share a brief peck on the lips. They back away just as quick, Beau turning and sliding her hand to Yasha’s shoulder, where it subconciously begins to stroke up and down, nearing Yasha’s bicep. Yasha doesn’t even react. “That good enough?” says Beau with a lecherous grin. “We can give you more, if you want—”

“Okay, Jes,” says Fjord, before Jester can answer, “the cookies are gonna burn—”

“I know, I know!”

Caleb sighs and turns his focus back to the living room. Mollymauk, head resting on his folded hands, lifts his head. “We eating any time soon?”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” mutters Caleb.

Below him, Nott groans. In the past couple minutes, she’s abandoned her phone and now sits upright and alert, waiting for any hint they can dish up soon.

It takes another ten minutes—filled with doors slamming and overlapping voices—for Jester, tying off her apron to reveal a pleated blue and gold dress, to emerge. Beau, Yasha, and Fjord can still be heard in the kitchen. Mollymauk arches an eyebrow as Jester hovers before them.

“You can dish up as soon as Beau and Yasha finish,” she says sweetly.

Nott hops to her feet. “Oh, good—”

Fjord appears behind Jester, cradling a plate with bread and a bowl of steaming soup. “Weren’t you gonna give ‘em a warning, honey?”

“Oh, yes!” Jester claps and smiles, cheek-to-cheek. A shiver runs down Caleb’s spine—glancing around, it seems the same has happened to Nott, Mollymauk, and even Fjord. “I am letting you all eat in the living room out of the goodness of my heart, but if you spill anything on my floor, I _will_ retaliate.”

“She means that,” says Fjord, as if they couldn’t have guessed.

Beau and Yasha stroll out, Beau lifting a spoonful of noodle soup to her lips and Yasha blowing on a platter of fried chicken and both holding beer bottles. Nott launches herself past their legs into the kitchen. Jesterturnsher gaze on Caleb and Mollymauk, who are both still staring at the spot Nott had just been.

“Go dish up before she eats everything, then,” she says with a shrug. “Also save some for me, please?”

“Of course, dear,” says Mollymauk after a second.

Caleb gets up with a little nod. Mollymauk is soon to follow. “Don’t forget the mistletoe!” hollers Jester after a beat, and Caleb freezes in the doorway, realizing he and Mollymauk are standing under the same door frame Beau and Yasha had been minutes ago.

Mollymauk stops dead, eyes blown wide and face red. “Ah.”

Well-put, thinks Caleb, but he’s not much better off—any possible words catch in his throat, his face heating up rapidly. His eyes flicker between several points of interest. Inches above them is a hanging of mistletoe; a few more feet the other direction, Fjord, Beau, and Yasha are ribbing each other over soup and chicken; and Mollymauk himself is only a step away from Caleb. Mollymauk shines under the light trailing out from the kitchen, and not just because he’s covered in the usual bling and sequins.

Again, Caleb finds himself thinking, _His hair looks so soft._ He bats that thought—and the following one, about carding his fingers through it—away. It’s dumb and cliche, he tells himself, but heat has already spread to his ears, and he can’t chase the idea away.

Mollymauk takes a shaky breath. The awkward silence is shattered by Nott, unaware or uncaring of their situation, pushing between them. Caleb only then realizes how close they’d gotten.

Face even redder, Mollymauk clears his throat and is, of course, the one not to be rendered stone by this. He leans down and cups the back of Caleb’s neck. The soft touch sends Caleb’s hair on end. Just when he thinks Mollymauk is going to lean in fully, he angles Caleb’s head down and kisses his forehead again. Warmth pulses throughout Caleb’s body—and yet, his bones fill with a numb sense of disappointment.

“Well, that—um. That’s over with,” says Mollymauk, still flustered. It’s a strange emotion to see on his face, but he covers it up with his usual smile and rushes into the kitchen.

Jester sidles up to Caleb’s side as soon as Mollymauk’s back is turned. Now Caleb questions why she’d waited to get her food. He’s been had, he realizes seconds too late.

“Thank you _sooo_ much, Jester,” she whispers, splaying a hand across her forehead and laying Caleb’s accent over her voice. She’s no Kiri, and hearing her Slavic accent pushed into a fake German one is uncomfortable. “You got me under the mistletoe with the person of my dreams—”

Caleb, furiously warm, regains enough control of his body to slap a hand over her mouth. “He is _standing right there_.”

Jester blows a raspberry into his palm. Cringing, Caleb snatches his hand back and shakes it out. Mollymauk turns away from the counter to raise an eyebrow at the pair—he’s gathered up a heaping of chicken and a small bowl of potato salad.

“We weren’t talking about you!” says Jester, beaming. Caleb buries his head in his hands.

“All riiight,” says Mollymauk.

Unsubtly, Jester mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key to Caleb, then she winks at Mollymauk. “Oh, don’t worry about it, friend. And shove over so Caleb and I can eat.”

At that, Mollymauk’s startled expression falters into a more natural amused smile. “No problem.”

Jester takes pity on Caleb—or just can’t think of anything else to say—as they both dish up in stiff silence. Caleb mulls over the mistletoe scene; he figures this is one of those things that, ten years from now, will have him sitting up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. That seems to be the way embarrassing memories ( _most_ memories, chides a voice at the back of his head—he ignores it) go with him.

Regardless, he makes it back out of the kitchen in one piece, followed by Jester, who’s humming “Santa Baby.” _Home Alone_ is playing when they gather back around the TV. Mollymauk has moved to the floor in front of the couch. Beau and Yasha are on the couch again, far enough apart that they have room for their plates. Nott has returned to her place on the floor by one armchair, which Fjord has taken. She manages to look up from her overflowing plate to flash Caleb a sheepish look. Jester prances over to the other armchair before Caleb can even think about it.

He settles onto the floor, taking a space between Mollymauk and Nott. It isn’t as uncomfortable as he’d expected—he has a better view of the television than he did from the armchair, and the carpet is soft. (He _does_ have to pick a sequin or two off his leg. Mollymauk gives him a sheepishly apologetic look.)

Once they’ve all sat, the conversation dies down—at least, until Beau coughs, drawing everyone’s attention to her. She sets her spoon down, jaw working as she stares at her plate. Yasha straightens. Caleb, in the middle of cutting his chicken into more manageable slices, freezes. Fjord peers up, and Jester pauses the movie. Mid-bite, Mollymauk leans back. Even Nott stops tearing into her plate like a woman starved. The room stands still for a moment while Beau—of all people—weighs her words.

“Uh, so.” She hesitates—Fjord nods in encouragement and waves his hand in a _go on_ motion. Begrudging, Beau sighs and says, “The Dongzhi Festival is today. It’s, like, this holiday in China around the solstice, and—” she rolls her eyes “—you celebrate it by having a big-ass meal with your family. My—my mom called earlier, actually.” She drums her fingers on her thigh—she looks more tired, Caleb realizes, than she has in a long time. “But I think this is a good enough family meal.”

Beau lifts her head, fire in her gaze, and Caleb smiles in silent agreement. She doesn’t continue or elaborate on the speech. Off to one side, Jester breaks into a beam—on the other, Fjord nods. Yasha knocks her knee against Beau’s. When Caleb lifts his head, he’s surprised (well, maybe not that much) at how soft Yasha’s face is, eyes crinkled at the edges and lips twisted up, something bittersweet in her gaze. Mollymauk reaches up to squeeze Beau’s wrist. She doesn’t reciprocate, but she doesn’t protest either.

With a silent grin, Nott raises her wine glass. “To family,” she says, and Caleb returns her smile in full force.

“To family!” the rest of the room cheers.

Even if the chairs and couch are closer than normal, they’re still not all close enough to have a perfectly aligned toast. Caleb clinks his gaze against Nott’s, then turns to toast Beau, Yasha, and Mollymauk.

He shares a small look with Mollymauk when they lower their glasses. _It’ll be fine_ , Caleb tries to convey with his eyes alone. He’s never been too good at that, but Mollymauk’s cheek creases with his returned smile nevertheless. Beau nudges the small of Caleb’s back with her foot—when he glances back, she winks.

After dinner and dessert—much more comfortable after Jester turns _Home Alone_ back on and they don’t have to carry on the conversation—is the gift exchange. Jester jumps to her feet, almost dropping her plate on the ground.

“Fjord,” she says, batting her eyelashes, “will you—”

Fjord snorts. “Yes, Jes, I’ll clean up. Molly, you mind helping?”

The next few minutes are spent rearranging the couch and armchairs so they can cluster in a circle around the present-covered tree skirt. TV still playing a few feet away, they do so once Fjord and Mollymauk return from the kitchen.

Jester’s grin is truly terrifying, thinks Caleb as she flops down between Fjord and Yasha, almost bouncing. She goes over the rules: they each have a turn to take one gift from the pool, and when everyone has taken something, they can swap gifts. Nott seems to be the only one actively listening—Caleb suspects it’s because Jester had taken her phone away.

“Let’s start with… Caleb!”

Caleb’s head shoots up. Jester winks in his direction, doing jazz hands, and he shifts on his knees. “Why.”

“Somebody has to,” says Jester.

“Ja, sure, but—no, okay, fine.” He doesn’t want to spend the rest of the evening arguing with Jester and doubts anyone else wants him to. After a quick glance over the pile, he picks up the present in the dead center—a rectangular box wrapped in holographic paper. “This is yours, I assume,” he mutters, glancing at Jester.

Her wide-eyed grin is all the confirmation he gets; that, and the look from Fjord that can only be described as whole-hearted pity. Ignoring the fear coursing through him, Caleb rattles the box. It’s not heavy but not feather-light either. If worst comes to worst, he can always trade whatever horror lies inside, anyway. He fits his blunt nails under the bits of tape around the seams and peels the wrapping paper off.

Yasha tilts her head. “You’re good at that.”

Caleb brushes the comment off as he crumples the paper into a ball and stares at the bland black box in his lap. “Jester, I am terrified,” he says flatly.

“Why would you be scared of something I bought?” says Jester, waving a hand. “Open it! Open it! Open it!”

“That is precisely why I’m scared.” Caleb shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and slides the lid off. He opens his eyes, and—

Sitting in the box is a bright pink dildo, about the length of his forearm. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he expected anything else. Caleb keeps the blank look on his face and ignores the warmth in his face. He glares at Jester, who’s broken into silent, teary giggles, leaning on Fjord’s bicep for support.

“Thank you, Jester,” he deadpans. “Would you mind telling me what this sold for so I can list it on eBay for twice as much?”

Jester waggles her finger. “No reselling!” she says, but her voice cracks halfway through and she bursts into more snickering. She recovers enough a moment later, just to say, “Only lots of fun with that one.”

Caleb drops his head into his palm. Nott leans toward the box, then reels back, covering her eyes and shrieking, “I’m too young to see this!”

“You’re at least twenty,” says Beau, on the other side of Caleb. She falters. “Well, probably?” Caleb glances up—he notes _she’s_ looking rather uncomfortable, eyes anywhere but on the silicon dick. When she catches him looking, she scowls. “Where the hell’d you get this, Jester?”

“Thinking about doing some shopping?” says Jester.

Beau opens her mouth. “You are all children,” says Yasha, cutting her off. Caleb pushes off the heat in his cheeks enough to glare at her, but he doesn’t have anything against her, so it falls flat. If anything, he respects how emotionless her face is right now.

That’s more than can be said for Mollymauk, also red but also giggling and reaching across Yasha to pat Jester’s hand. “Well done, well done.”

Fjord groans. “Can we move the fuck on?”

Jester pouts. “But I wanna tease Caleb more.”

“ _Hey,”_ says Caleb. He glances around and pushes the box as far away from him as it can get without going back into the gift pool or to either Beau or Nott. It’s not very far.

“Fine, fine, you bay-bies,” says Jester, rolling her eyes. “We’ll go clockwise. Nott?”

Nott jolts. “Uh, sure. There aren’t any more—any more of those in there, are there?” she adds hastily.

“Mayhaps.” Mollymauk smirks and leans back. At Nott’s fierce glare, he lifts his hands. “Dear, I can promise that if there is, it isn’t from me. Yasha, anything to share with the class?”

Yasha sighs. “No.”

“That’s everybody I’d suspect, then,” says Mollymauk, leaning back toward the skirt with an easy smile. “Go ahead and pick one.”

Still looking around suspiciously, Nott reaches in and snatches the gift bag Mollymauk had brought in. She tears at the violet tissue paper, and Mollymauk whistles, low. The paper lands in small clusters around her—and Caleb. He can’t help but gather it up in one hand, counting the pieces under his breath as he goes.

Jester’s eyes light up at the box Nott pulls out. “Ooh.”

Even Beau looks a little intrigued. Mollymauk clears his throat in Nott’s silence and says, “It’s a Magic 8-Ball. You know how to use one?”

“Yes-or-no question and shake it.” Nott stares at the packaging—it seems to be brand new—and, slow, turns her gaze on Mollymauk. _Try me!_ says the box. “Is Molly full of shit?” she asks it, without looking away.

Fjord chortles, startled, across the circle, and Beau snorts. Caleb hides his smile in his fist as Mollymauk pulls a mock-offended face. “Listen, fortune-telling is—”

Nott shakes the Magic 8-Ball and looks back to see the response. Caleb leans over her—he can’t help a snicker at the raised message on the die. Unimpressed, Nott looks back at Mollymauk and reads, _“It is decidedly so.”_

Mollymauk makes an exaggerated pained noise, clutching his chest. “I’m wounded. I’ll remember this transgression the rest of my probably short life, Nott—”

“I’m sure,” says Yasha, and Mollymauk turns his wide eyes on her.

“It’s your turn, Molly,” coos Jester.

He sighs and dusts his shirt off with a flourish—a few sequins flutter to the ground. “I _suppose_ I can recover from all the hurtful things that’ve been said about me.” Leaning forward in thought, Mollymauk looks over the presents—he settles on a messily wrapped box taller than it is wide. “Anyone have a guess?”

“Shut up,” says Beau, narrowing her eyes, “I didn’t have time to do a nice wrapping job.”

“Of course, of course,” says Mollymauk. He unwraps the gift, smile never wavering even when it turns out to be a punching bag. “How thoughtful, Beau.”

Beau flips him off—Mollymauk laughs. Everyone else is somewhat weirded out by the exchange. Mollymauk slides the box to his side and ushers Jester on.

Jester claps and nudges Yasha’s side. “You next!”

With a huff, Yasha shifts under the attention on her. Beside Caleb, Nott keeps muttering questions under her breath and gleefully whispers the responses to Mollymauk—most, of course, regard him and how full of shit he is.

Yasha considers the remaining presents, reaching out after several seconds. Caleb’s anxiety spikes when her fingers pass over his, but she goes with one wrapped in _The Little Mermaid_ paper instead. Caleb glances toward Beau and hums a few bars of “Kiss The Girl.” He gets shoved in the arm, but it’s worth it.

Fjord gives a little “oh,” flushing when her eyes drift from the box in her hands to him. “That, uh, was the only one left in our garage. Jes hoards the rest.”

Jester giggles in self-deprecation, and Yasha smiles thinly. “It’s cute,” she says, then tears the paper open in one clean slice. It’s very impressive.

Caleb leans forward as Yasha’s eyebrows lift. Inside is a boxed mug, neat cursive on its cover proclaiming _World’s Okayest Teacher_. Mollymauk cranes his neck to get a closer look.

Running her hands across the mug’s cardboard casing, Yasha’s smile widens. “This is very nice, Fjord. Thank you.”

“‘Course.” Fjord’s smile fills with relief. “Wanted to put at least one nice thing in.” The _to make up for my fiancée_ is unspoken.

“It is a very good mug, Yasha.” Jester pats Yasha’s arm. “Whose—? Ooh, it’s my turn—” Her eyes dart across the pile. Without much deliberation, she reaches out and scoops up an otherwise bland package coated in candy cane-patterned wrapping paper. “This looks sweet.”

“Better than you deserve,” mutters Caleb, still refusing to look at his present.

Jester shoots him a cheerful grin. She opens her present with wild abandon, revealing a box of wrapped lollipops. Caleb has to fight a gag when she pulls one out and he spots the _ANT LOLLIPOPS_ lettering on the box, then the curled specks encased in blue candy. A part of him can’t help but think she deserves this. Beau recoils with disgusted fascination on her face; Fjord’s upper lip curls back; Nott, still toying with the Magic 8-Ball in hand, just blinks; and Mollymauk perches forward on his heels.

Continuing to observe the lollipop in hand, Jester frowns. “Where did you find these?” she says, an odd delight in her voice. “Oh, sorry, who got them? There are, like, three options but at least one seems unlikely.”

Yasha lifts a hand. “I got them. And I’ll never tell,” she says with the hint of a smirk.

Jester shrugs and peels the wrapping off. Caleb pinches his eyes shut as she leans in to lick it. Even Yasha, though, apparently doesn’t want to witness it.

“They _are_ real ants, do you—did you realize that—”

“Yup!”

There’s a chorus of groans at the crunching sound that follows. Mollymauk mutters, “That _cannot_ be good for her.”

“They were expensive,” says Yasha. “They’d better be.”

“If not, beat up whoever made ‘em,” says Beau, and Caleb doesn’t have to open his eyes to know she’s grinning and attempting to wink with both eyes. “Actually, do it anyway. These things shouldn’t exist.”

Another few crunches, then Jester hums and smacks her lips. Caleb opens his eyes to see just a stick remaining in her hand, her cheeks puffed up. He glances to the side at a rattling sound—Nott is raising her Magic 8-Ball in Jester’s direction. He catches her wrist before she can chuck it.

“Jes,” says Fjord desperately. “Honey. I love you but this is vile.”

“It was actually very good,” says Jester, licking her lips. Her grin widens at how their disgusted faces twist. She pushes the box aside—Fjord scoots away from it. “Oh come on, we work at an elementary school. You’ve seen worse.”

“I mean—” Mollymauk makes a so-so gesture. “It’s about on par with the daily grossness of third and fourth graders.”

“Try kindergarteners,” mutters Fjord.

Yasha waves her still-packaged mug in the air. “Fifth grade. I win.”

“I have to deal with all of the above and everything in between,” deadpans Caleb. Beau and Jester nod in agreement. Nott’s wrist flexes against his wrist. “Schwesterherz, unless you are going to put the ball down, I’m not letting go.”

“I could break this hold,” says Nott, eyes narrowed.

“I have no doubt.” Caleb lets go—mostly because she’s leaning back, tugging on the grip. Arms flailing, Nott lands flat on her back with a _thud_. She groans. “Okay, Fjord’s turn now, please?” he adds over everyone’s startled looks, desperate to get this running again.

“Oh—yep.” Fjord drags a quick hand over his face. He glances over the two remaining presents, then grabs Caleb’s without so much as a double take. Caleb’s shoulders go ramrod-straight. “This yours?”

It takes Caleb a couple seconds to process the question. “Oh, er, ja.”

Fjord nods, smiling in reassurance. Nott returns to toying with the 8-Ball—not asking any questions anymore, just shooting imploring looks around the circle and then shaking it. Flipping it over in his hands, Fjord pops open the small box. He blinks at the wrapped silicon figure inside: a bright orange cat with its claws forward, ready to grip a cup.

“It’s, uh. It’s a tea infuser,” says Caleb, even though that’s on the package. “There were lots of different shapes, but the cat was the first one I saw, so—”

And it had been the one Fjord is allergic to. He realizes he doesn’t even know if Fjord drinks tea. Biting his lip, he realizes he doesn’t know if _anyone_ in the room—save Jester (who always has caffeine at school) and Mollymauk (who he’s seen with various herbal teas)—drinks tea. Caleb’s hands twist in his lap as his mind starts its usual downward spiral—

His fears are pinched silent when Fjord stretches across the tree skirt to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s great, Caleb. Sure, I don’t like cats a lot, but this one ain’t gonna make my throat close up, so it’s decent. Plus, it’s a relief to know I wasn’t the only one who put in a serious gift, _Jester_ —”

Jester scoffs. “Hey, I ate an ant lollipop!”

“You did that on your own,” says Yasha. “All I did was supply them.”

Instead of replying, Jester points at the last person in the circle—Beau, who of course takes the last present in the skirt. Nott’s. Nott squeaks as Beau rattles it around. Caleb knows what’s inside, having helped Nott pick it out in the first place, so he doesn’t bother hiding his lack of surprise when Beau shrugs and unwraps the set of mood rings. She slips one of five off the cardboard package, running it over between her fingers.

“Is there even a cheat sheet in here? Like, pink means ‘flirty,’ red means ‘ready to punch something and/or someone’—”

Yasha snorts. Caleb raises an eyebrow at how those are Beau’s go-tos. Nott leans over Caleb, setting the 8-Ball down for the first time that night, and reaches into the box. “There should be one—somewhere—”

A few seconds of their hands weaving around each other’s and everyone else watching uncomfortably later, Beau lifts a small slip of paper. “Got it.” She slides the ring—which goes a violent cobalt almost at once—onto her thumb and squints down at it. “Let’s see… okay, okay, deep blue means—” And she freezes. Her mouth opens and shuts a few times, then, with an awkward laugh, she says, “‘In love,’ apparently.”

Jester giggles. Mollymauk glances between her and an impassive Yasha. Despite Beau’s bored and derisive facade, Caleb hears the mild panic in her voice and sees how her eyes flicker briefly to Yasha.

He scoffs and says, “These aren’t accurate. They are based off of—of body temperature, or something like that. Don’t worry about it, ja?”

“Right, yep.” Beau laughs weakly again and slips the ring off her finger. She glares at it like it’s the reason she like-likes someone. As is common with his and Beau’s like emotions, Caleb hates how much he can relate to that. Sarcasm wraps around her voice as she adds, “Oh yeah, uh—thanks, Nott, for giving me the best gift of all: self-realization.”

The circle chuckles, breaking the confused tension. Nott gives Beau a flat look. Her eyes keep darting to the rings—it had been almost a physical pain for her to give them up after buying them. They’re not very shiny, but they’re flashy jewelry nonetheless.

“Can we swap yet?” he asks, hoping to change the subject before Beau sweats her skin off.

Jester pouts and says, “Break my heart, why don’t you,” but nods.

Caleb ignores that. He glances around the circle—there’s nothing in particular he wants, but he’d settle for even the ant lollipops to get rid of… this. Ignoring Jester’s snickering, he slides the lid back on and makes unfortunate eye contact with Beau.

She sighs and shoves the box of rings and the color meanings sheet toward him. “Here. I don’t really want ‘em—sorry, Nott.”

Nott looks elated. Caleb snorts at the hope coming back into her eyes, mutters, “I do not think she’s too offended,” and pushes the dildo box toward Beau. Beau’s nose wrinkles as it hits her palms, but she offers him her hand when he picks the rings up. He shakes it, feeling like his wrist is going to break from the force of Beau’s grip. Jesus.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she says.

“And you,” says Caleb. They share an uncomfortable grin.

Across the circle, Jester happily pops another ant lollipop in her mouth—Caleb and Fjord shudder in grim unison. Mollymauk has draped himself over Yasha’s shoulder, trying to snatch her mug and replace it with his punching bag, but Yasha holds it just out of reach. Caleb turns to Nott, whose eyes are large and pleading and fixed on him.

He sighs. “Here, we can share the rings. Like friendship jewelry.”

Nott’s ensuing beam isn’t really worth the painful parts of the evening, but it’s good enough.

(On the car ride home, Nott gives her Magic 8-Ball—which Fjord had gotten out scissors for to remove it from the packaging—another question. “Is Molly in love with Caleb?” she asks it, and Caleb almost runs into the nearest tree.

He keeps his eyes straight forward and fingers stiff on the wheel as Nott shakes the ball. She hums and _ooh_ s and _aah_ s, until, at the next stop sign, Caleb slams on the brakes. His car makes an ungodly screech and skids to a pause. Caleb hates the shit-eating grin he can see in the rearview mirror. Though he doesn’t ask, Nott reads the answer off once he starts driving again anyway.

“ _Without a doubt_. See, even the Magic 8-Ball—”

“It is as full of shit as he is,” says Caleb, and he refuses to listen to any further questions Nott asks it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while editing i realized this chapter includes the third forehead kiss so far. third time's the charm...?????
> 
> thanks for reading! see you next week!
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	8. part ii, chapter iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb makes a decision and car rides are the window to the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i don't know anything about cars
> 
> so, backstory part 1! i'm so scared for the next chapter & i'm the author, who has already edited that chunk
> 
> sidenote since there's only 2 chapters of part 2 after this: i'm going to do my best to get back on schedule with editing so i can resume biweekly updates for part 3 (& get everything out before school & other responsibilities take up all my spare time), i'm mentioning this so i don't end up Not doing that

Life is difficult. There are things one person can’t keep from happening; things that are unpredictable in the first place. But even though everyone knows life has its trials and tribulations, they’re still thrown for a loop when faced with them.

These are the kinds of thoughts running through Caleb’s head on New Year’s Eve, as he sits in his driveway in a Beetle that refuses to start. It isn’t a complete shock—it’s a 2006 model and has been having issues for at least three years now. Despite that, Caleb finds himself only able to sit with his hands on the steering wheel in silence.

In the passenger seat, a hunched-over Nott chews her lip. Caleb stares at the steam fluttering up from the hood, streaking the already murky evening sky black. He doesn’t think he could pull his hands off the wheel if he tried. Mouth twisting, Caleb takes a steadying breath and proves himself wrong: he lifts one quaking hand and twists his keys again. He waits, anxiety building, and—

Nothing. Not even a little shudder of motion and sound this time. The stuffed cat charm dangling from the windshield offers no sage advice. Nott’s lip chewing grows louder.

Caleb, still silent, knocks his head against the steering wheel. As he squeezes his eyes shut, red bursts against his eyelids. A prayer floats around somewhere in his head—he doesn’t bother voicing it. His hands curl into fists and slam against the dashboard.

“Um, Caleb—”

“It’s fine.” He’s surprised for a second at how rough his voice is. Angry tears prick at the corners of his eyes—sure, his car is an even bigger mess than _he_ is, but he’s had it for years. It can’t just die now.

 _Please let me have it for five more months,_ thinks Caleb, eyes darting skyward. _Or just tonight. I am a working adult who would like to go out to dinner with his sister tonight._

With that thought, he takes another pleading breath and gathers all his desperation. Eyes still shut and hands still shaking, he reaches for the keys. A little puff this time—then nothing. Silence.

“Okay. Okay,” says Caleb under his breath. He opens his eyes and looks for the horizon line—this isn’t carsickness (unless he wants to get very liberal with that term), though, and his house is in the way.

Apathy replaces the thinly-veiled fury from a minute ago. Caleb drags a hand through his hair; greasy, but not as greasy as it could be. He can work on that.

He undoes his seatbelt and tucks his knees up into his chest, mirroring Nott’s signature move. He’s not tall—average height, at most—but he’s still taller than Nott, so it takes some doing. His knee catches on the wheel, unraveling more of the cover. It was shot to shit anyway. Being over ten years old will do that to a car’s interior.

“This sucks,” says Caleb. He keeps staring forward, feeling like staying here in the car all night. Sleeping here, even, if this is one of those nights his brain will _let_ him sleep. Who needs dinner? Not Caleb right now, that’s for sure.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Nott twitch, hands fidgeting at her sides. She opens her mouth again and again but closes it within seconds each time. After a long stretch of silence, she angles herself toward the window.

The blankness passes a few minutes later, and Caleb sits upright, wondering what the actual hell he’s been doing. “…My car is dead,” he says, slow.

“Are you okay?” It seems like Nott’s been chewing on that one for several minutes now.

Caleb blinks and scrubs his hands over his face. “Not really. Okay, I assume you do not want to walk to a restaurant now.”

“Not really,” echoes Nott.

He drums his fingers on the wheel as he weighs multiple options. His car’s just been taken in the prime of its life (except not really). Silently, Caleb promises to take it to a shop as soon as he gets paid—not for almost three weeks, yay, but at least it’s two months’ pay combined. He’ll throw a funeral if the damages are irreparable. Only two people will attend and one will be himself, but that’s fine.

Right now, though, Caleb wants to sleep. He shrugs the exhaustion off his shoulders and says, “We can call something in? Your choice.”

“Uh.” Nott tilts her head and mulls it over. A couple seconds later, her eyes light up. “Bangladeshi? There’s the pizza place right next door if your sensitive German palate can’t handle haleem.”

Caleb rolls her eyes and shoves her. Giggling, she swats his hands away. “All right, all right.”

Throughout dinner—which does turn out to be a mix of Bangladeshi take-out and cheese pizza—Caleb sends longing glances out toward the front window in the living room. How he wishes he’d been able to get Nott a car for her sixteenth birthday. (To be fair, he’d been sinking into a black hole of stacking debt from therapy—not covered by his shitty insurance— _and_ college, so not his fault.) He turns to stare during every conversation break more than a few minutes long. At least, he does until Nott looks up from her tandoori chicken, sighs, and tells him he’s looking at his car “like it’s Molly.”

He almost chokes on his pizza and scrambles for water to wash down the reaction. Nott looks rather unimpressed.

Too preoccupied with his car’s ill-timed demise, that night Caleb picks up something he’s already read so many times the pages are creased together: _Wuthering Heights_. It’s engaging enough to keep him awake and slow enough to leave him to his thoughts. Absently turning pages, he dwells on what to do about transportation—he has a job and has to drive him and Nott everywhere. He can’t hire someone to drive them, with his shrinking money supply for the next three weeks. And there isn’t any public transportation nearby—or at least not close enough that it’d be a waste to walk there instead of straight to the school.

“I’m fucked,” he tells the page, where Mrs. Dean is launching into Heathcliff’s story. Predictably, the book doesn’t respond.

Walking would be fine if not for the facts that a) Zadash Grade School is up several hills and b) Caleb is very far from the pinnacle of physical health. The latter _could_ be helped by walking, but he can barely do a push-up without wheezing, which Beau has mocked him for time and time again—

Beau. That’s a thought. But she jogs to school more days than not, even though she lives farther away than Caleb. On the days she doesn’t, Caleb could ask her to drive them to and fro—

The thought of spending extended time in an enclosed space with Beau, even though she’s one of his closest friends, makes Caleb wince. Not that, then. Yasha would be acceptable—unless Caleb would have to pretend he didn’t know she and Beau had been sleeping together. He’s also pretty sure she drives her Harley to school instead of her Subaru most days. Fjord and Jester might be fine—oh no, thinks Caleb almost at once, remembering how sappy they can get. It’s cute from a distance and uncomfortable up close. Plus, they switch between Jester’s Mustang and Fjord’s Sedona far too often and sporadically for Caleb to feel comfortable.

Strike all of them, then. Which leaves, out of the co-workers he’s comfortable asking… Mollymauk.

Scheiße. He can’t actually pick apart any issues in Mollymauk driving him and Nott. Mollymauk has a convertible, sure, but that might not be so bad, and his companionship has proved calming enough. The only issue is, oh, the small fact that Caleb has harbored feelings for him for almost a year and might die of embarrassment from spending time in a small space with his crush and his sister. Which sounds juvenile when he thinks of it like that.

Caleb groans and glances at the clock. It’s gotten late, so he could dismiss a text request as weird midnight thoughts and convince Yasha to drive her Subaru more often. His impulse control rapidly declines around this hour of the night, so that wouldn’t be a complete lie. Too tired to argue with himself, Caleb sets his book aside and opens up his contact. The last time he and Mollymauk exchanged texts outside a group chat was two months ago, about seating arrangements. Jesus, he’s really doing this.

He ends up rewriting the message about five times, then settles with: _Hi, my car broke down tonight. Would you mind driving Nott and_ _me_ _to work until I can get it into a shop? I promise I will repay you when possible. I apologize for asking so late, but I could not think of any other alternatives._

With another weak groan, Caleb hits send. His face is in his pillow and his eyes have pinched shut before he can think to question the decision.

His hands twitch every few seconds over the next forty minutes. Sleep has chosen to be evasive tonight—it’s even more difficult when his nerves are high and he’s desperate to keep checking for a reply. Eventually, though, Caleb is able to fall into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes, he has two missed calls placed around four-thirty in the morning and a text from about five—all from Mollymauk. The text is a simple OK hand emoji. A vague feeling of disappointment washes over Caleb—there’s more to it, probably, given the calls and weirdness of the situation as a whole.

He’s too tired to pick apart the one-symbol message, though, so he gets up to tell Nott the news.

+

At five-thirty the next school day, Caleb is woken by honking. Honestly, he’s not sure why he expected anything else. He drags his head from his pillow and rubs at the crust around his eyes. The past few days come crashing back into his mind—with a weary groan, Caleb gets up and yells for Nott to do the same.

Exactly twenty-five minutes later, he’s in the driveway. In one hand is a plastic bag filled with bread; in the other is Nott’s shoulder. She’s already falling back asleep, but she’s dressed, so it’s a partial success. She seems unperturbed by the bright purple car on the curb—that’s more than can be said for Caleb, even if the top is up. His fingers tighten on the bag of bread.

“Sorry, we are not on teacher time—”

Mollymauk, one elbow out the rolled-down window, pushes his sunglasses back up. (It’s barely even light out.) “No problem, no problem. I’m just usually one of the first to school, so—”

 _How admirable,_ thinks Caleb, but what he says is a brusque, “That’s fine. Nott, Schwesterherz, wake up.”

He nudges her into an upright position. Mumbling something unintelligible, Nott wobbles on her feet as Caleb opens the back door for her. Mollymauk glances back at them. For once, his smile is more irritating than endearing. That could be because Caleb is currently maneuvering Nott, her bag, and his into the backseat. With a huff, he makes sure her legs aren’t dangling out onto the curb, then slams the door shut.

“…She is asleep again.”

“Like a cat,” says Mollymauk, smile more of a smirk now.

“Mm.” Caleb himself is tripping over his shoelaces, but he gets into the passenger side more or less in one piece. As much as he always is, at any rate. “How are _you_ awake this early?”

Wordlessly, Mollymauk lifts a sealed mug from his cupholder and drinks. The scent of coffee permeates the entire car.

“I see.”

Silence (excluding Nott snoring in the back) takes over the next few minutes—Caleb is still thinking slower than usual, body and mind sluggish with the early hour and lack of sleep the night before. As more of the sun emerges from beneath the horizon, he sneaks glances to the driver’s seat. Mollymauk keeps his eyes forward but keeps taking casual sips of coffee. The light gleams off the top of his head and shimmers down along his hair, a patchwork of purple and blue and some pink again.

Caleb realizes he’s been staring for at least a minute and snaps his head to the side. Mollymauk laughs, a noise gentle enough Caleb can ignore it as he gazes at the passing scenery. His forehead bumps the window—the cool glass is comforting and—he looks it over—spotless. Outside, melting chunks of snow cling to trees and roofs and the sidewalk, sparkling in the brightening sunshine.

“It’s—” Mollymauk cuts himself off, and Caleb’s head lifts. He nods, short, and Mollymauk turns to blink at him—he looks away before Caleb can tell him to watch the road. “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”

Caleb’s eyes linger on him. He can’t help but think bitterly about how he’s living in a rom-com now as he says, “Ja, it is.”

Mollymauk’s lips quirk. In the backseat, Nott stirs, and then yelps as she comes to consciousness enough to realize she’s in a moving vehicle. Caleb forces his eyes away to face her.

“You are fine, Mäuschen,” he says, pinching his eyes shut. “We are driving to school with Mollymauk because my car is a steaming pile of shit now. Well, it has always been, but it is broken now.”

At that, Mollymauk snickers. Nott blinks away the haze, squinting suspiciously at the back of his head, but she seems to deem the situation acceptable. The quiet creeps back in. Caleb rolls up a sleeve to pick at his arm—he finds a faded mole near his elbow and fixates on it.

“For some reason, I never realized how long the drive was,” he attempts to joke; it just gives way to a devious gleam in Mollymauk’s eyes. “If you speed up, I am getting out.”

“Of a moving car?” Mollymauk raises his eyebrows. “You’re losing your chance, dear, we’re almost there.”

“You’d stop to let him out,” says Nott in what seems like an accusatory tone.

Mollymauk goes pink. His only reply is a middle finger over his shoulder, which Nott giggles at. Caleb’s eyes flicker between them—he decides after a moment that he doesn’t want to know what the underlying message is.

“Are we there yet?” he says instead.

Mollymauk turns his middle finger on him and keeps driving.

+

“Hey, you don’t mind if I play music, do you?” asks Mollymauk on Friday, as soon as they get in.

It’s been two days—Nott is a little less drowsy, but still tripping over herself, and Caleb has followed Mollymauk’s example and brewed himself coffee. A burnt piece of toast sticks out from between his teeth. Flushing, Caleb buckles his seatbelt and chews before he answers.

“As long as it isn’t headache inducing, go ahead.”

“Fantastic.” Mollymauk flicks on the radio. Upbeat pop fills the car, turned down to a volume Caleb suspects would’ve been much louder had he not specified. “That okay?”

“It is fine, ja.”

Mollymauk keeps fiddling with the controls as they drive. He settles on a classic rock station after a couple minutes of flickering between pop and jazz—Nott hums along to it, and Mollymauk sings softly, voice just as beautiful as Caleb remembers. As the various sounds flow over him, Caleb shuts his eyes and thinks about, somehow, habits. It takes twenty-one days to form a simple one.

They’ll get there, he thinks in his sleep deprivation.

+

“Oh, you’re bringing the cat today?”

“His name is Frumpkin,” says Nott. She’s had enough time within a week of this arrangement to readjust to the new sleep schedule and is thus awake and alert, though she’s still scowling as she hefts Frumpkin’s crate.

Caleb—who hadn’t had much of a coherent sleep schedule in the first place, but who is adjusting as well to the change as can be expected—sighs and elbows her. “He’s very well behaved. And in a cage.”

Mollymauk’s gaze drifts from Nott’s face to Caleb’s, then down to the crate at Nott’s side. “I’ve no doubt,” he says cheerfully, after a long, considering pause.

Caleb sighs in relief and snatches Frumpkin’s crate to ease him and the rest of his things into the backseat. From the crate comes a bored, sleepy mewl. With a weary glance at the lack of a roof today, Caleb leans back and lets Nott into the car.

“You haven’t brought him to school in a while, have you?” asks Mollymauk.

“Fjord is allergic,” says Caleb. “Plus, I did not know if you’d let him in your car.”

Mollymauk looks mildly offended, but Caleb thinks it’s a fair assumption. Nonetheless, they’re off a minute later. Caleb is scrounging through his bag to make sure he’d grabbed the books he’d repaired over the weekend when he realizes he’d forgotten breakfast. He’d offered something for Nott—though she’d declined in favor of having some gum now and cafeteria food later—and forgotten himself. A normal scenario.

“Verdammt,” he mutters anyway. He glances up, flushing at Mollymauk’s startled eyes flickering to him. In the back, Nott pops her gum. “I—uh. Forgot to get something to eat.”

“Oh.” Mollymauk frowns, then licks his lips and hurries to look back ahead. His fingers twitch on the wheel. “Do you want to drive back and grab something? It’s—”

“Nein, nein, you don’t have to do that for me.”

Nott heaves a sigh and turns her attention to Frumpkin. Caleb’s eyes are glued to the dashboard, so he doesn’t see Mollymauk’s reaction, but he does hear his little inhale, then—

“Caleb.” A short, tense pause. Mollymauk exhales—he taps the rhythm of the Queen song playing softly into the wheel. “I cannot stress how much I wouldn’t mind turning around. We aren’t in any kind of rush, dear.”

“I know,” says Caleb, though he doesn’t. He keeps staring at the dashboard. “But I do not mind waiting until lunch, truly.”

Mollymauk’s eyes stay on him as they stop at the next light. “I have a _lot_ of prep time. I wouldn’t mind getting something in a couple hours or so.”

Caleb’s flush deepens and spreads down his neck. Struggling against the urge to look up, he drums his fingers along his knee. “The cafeteria food is really not a good alternative.” A boot slams into the back of his seat.

“Yeah,” says Mollymauk, “but a restaurant might be. Ah, the, uh—the Nestled Nook has great potatoes.”

Caleb sucks in a breath and lets himself lift his head. Mollymauk has shifted his eyes back toward the road—but without really looking, since he doesn’t seem to have noticed the bright green light. Nott coughs in the backseat, shoe still trying to burrow through the seat. Reaching back to seize her ankle, Caleb nudges Mollymauk’s shoulder and mutters, “Green.”

Mollymauk, with a start, goes red and pulls forward. Nott’s leg wriggles against Caleb’s iron grasp. He holds tight.

“Also,” he adds, “I really am fine waiting to eat. You—” He’s cut off by his stomach growling, soft, and he sighs even as Mollymauk twists his head. “Fine, fine, I will have breakfast with you. Arschloch.”

Mollymauk blinks a couple of times before he breaks out into a loose, zig-zagged smile. In the backseat, Nott takes Caleb’s momentary catch of breath to slip loose—he glances over his shoulder to see her legs tucked up into her body again. She snorts and mumbles something to Frumpkin (a blunt “idiot,” Caleb thinks he hears over the whistling wind). Mollymauk turns to extend his invitation to her, but she declines, because—

“You’re going to _willingly_ eat school cafeteria food?”

“That’s what I said,” mutters Caleb.

Nott flashes a mouthful of pointy, gum-lined teeth and continues stroking Frumpkin through the bars of his crate.

Caleb is fairly certain Jester has been kicked out of the Nestled Nook for drawing dicks on their tables before, but the waiter doesn’t recognize them, so Caleb resolves not to mention her. It’s a bustling bistro even a quarter past six—and the potatoes are, indeed, great. So is the coffee, Caleb finds, and he takes some to go.

Outside, cradling the warm plastic cup and hiding his smile, he says, “Thank you, Molly.”

Molly blinks at him, pink filling his face from the cold, but he smiles after a moment. One hand in his pocket, he raises the other to pat Caleb’s shoulder. “Of course, of course.”

It’s not until later that Caleb realizes—in the middle of shelving books—that he’d called (and thought of) him as Molly, not Mollymauk. He almost drops _Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark,_ but he recovers before Nott notices.

+

He isn’t lucky for long, though. The next day, in fact, he greets Molly with the usual tired smile and wave—Frumpkin not included this time. Nott does the usual too; flinging herself across the backseat like it’s a chore. Molly chuckles as they settle in. Standing in the parking lot, though, Caleb can’t help but let slip a quiet, “Um, Molly—have a good day.”

Molly falters again, like yesterday. His smile comes faster this time. “You too. And you, of course, Nott,” he adds, reaching down to ruffle her hair.

“Hey,” says Nott mock-irritably. Her grin contradicts her tone. After a beat of processing, her eyes jump to Caleb and narrow as soon as Molly’s back is turned.

Caleb doesn’t address her gaze following him until they push down into the dark library—she watches him all the way, though. He flips the lights on and tosses his bag down, pointedly facing away from Nott. This is stupid, he realizes. It’s _Nott_ , who already knows about his embarrassing crush and has seen him through worse.

“What seems to be the problem, Schwesterherz?”

Her footsteps stop. With how the air turns stuffy, he’s tempted to turn to look at her—it could just be the general state of the library, being mostly underground and covered in dust and all. A silent moment, then Nott says, “You called him Molly.”

There’s no strong emotion in her voice, only mild curiosity. Caleb’s ears still heat at it being pointed out. “That is his name, ja.”

“Hmm,” says Nott. Caleb turns—her bag is halfway off her shoulder, and her head has quirked to one side. “You haven’t called him that before. Everybody else does, but you don’t. Didn’t.”

“Perhaps I caved to peer pressure.”

Nott snickers. “Perhaps,” she repeats, in a mocking accent, and Caleb knows how unbelievable it sounds. It doesn’t matter, he decides. “Why _didn’t_ you call him Molly?”

 _Because before, I was worried about getting too close,_ is the immediate answer in Caleb’s mind. It seems odd to think that over a _nickname_ , even to him, but when they’d first been introduced, Molly had made sure to mention it was something his friends called him. Caleb had done the same with Beau, though, and he still calls her Beauregard as an inverted nickname, but the stakes had been a little lower.

Caleb smooths down the sides of his jacket and says, “I do not know.” Quiet—Nott doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. He clears his throat. “Would you mind cleaning up my _Harry Potter_ shelf? Horris’ class was a little rough with them on Tuesday.”

Nott nods, and they don’t talk about it again.

+

The next day—Friday—is draining, to say the least, and it is immensely relieving to be able to embrace the weekend. Caleb sinks into Molly’s car at the end of the day, not able to greet him for a couple minutes. Within seconds, Nott is nodding off in the back.

Molly raises an eyebrow, arms slung around the steering wheel. “Rough day?”

“If by that you mean _did you have to drag fourth graders off the field, which they know they are not supposed to be on, and then stop a food fight_ ,” says Caleb, “then ja, I suppose you could call it a rough day. Oh, and I got sworn at by a third grader.” He winces—the same student had tried to check out five books at once (including one about the Great Chicago Fire that Caleb tries to pretend he doesn’t have). In retrospect, Caleb could’ve been less snappy, but the fire-filled cover had made him flinch. _And_ he knows for a fact he’s reminded Dairon’s class about the three-book limit more than enough times.

Molly’s eyebrows only climb higher. “Sorry to hear it,” he says, reaching out to awkwardly pat Caleb’s back. He waits for Caleb to buckle himself in before adding, “Do you mind if we make a detour? I’m making dinner for Yasha tonight and forgot to grab a couple… _exotic_ ingredients, so I’ve gotta head out almost to the mall to pick ‘em up. Shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes there and back.”

Caleb casts a glance over his shoulder—Nott’s breathing has evened out, and she’s nestled against the window. “I do not mind, _nein_.”

They get stuck in rush hour, though, because of course they do. Molly swears and leans forward, chin atop the steering wheel, as soon as they hit an expansive wall of cars on the freeway. Caleb can’t see around the bright semi ahead of them, but it seems like they’re backed up quite a bit. Even with the little blips forward every couple minutes, Nott continues dozing.

After a few minutes, Molly cracks a window and turns down the radio—Heart fades beneath the wind and honking. “Sorry,” he murmurs. His fingers graze Caleb’s waist, sprawled absently across the console. “I—I _did_ really mean for it to be a quick trip.”

“I know.” Caleb’s eyes shift from what little he can see of the road to Molly, lower lip between his sharp teeth. He squints. He hadn’t seen Molly around much today, and he’d been too tired this morning to scrutinize his appearance any more than usual, so it’s only now that he notices the glimmering purple tint. “Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Ah,” says Molly, blinking. “A little, yeah. I thought it’d worn off by now.”

Caleb fixes his gaze back onto the freeway. The semi in front of them has merged into the other lane, clearing up the view of the shitton of cars around them. “It looks nice.”

He glances at the rearview mirror to see Molly straightening up. “Oh, um—thank you very much, dear.”

The ensuing silence is awkward and tight. Caleb distracts himself by picking at his coat sleeve—he shouldn’t destroy it when he hasn’t had it even a month, but he doesn’t have anything else to fidget with. Molly turns the radio back up, Heart having segued into The Doors. He hums to the cheerful tune of “Love Her Madly” as his fingers drum along the steering wheel.

“Okay, fuck this,” he says, after a few more moments of weaving through backed up lines of cars. “Store’s still like, seven miles off—that’s gonna be at least ten more minutes at this rate, so I’m going to tell a story. Is Nott still asleep?”

Caleb almost points out that they’re stalled again, so Molly could just look over his own shoulder or in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t. _“Ja,”_ he says—she’s snoring, even, mouth parted and loose dark hair clinging to her cheeks.

“Great.” Molly cracks his knuckles and leans back, head tipping against the back of his seat. “Don’t mind if she hears, really, but Yasha and my dad are the only one who know any of this—that’re still in my life, anyway,” he adds with a bitter snort.

“Okay,” says Caleb warily.

Molly takes a shaky breath. He’s playing this up as casually as he can, but the lines around his eyes and the nervous waver to the thinning line of his mouth are obvious. “Remember when I told you I got my first tarot deck from some tourist trap?” Caleb nods. Eyes staying forward, Molly smirks, sardonic. “Well, that wasn’t the first one I’d been in—not in my whole life, not that week, not even that day. That summer I really wanted to feel alive. Like myself. What better way to do that than a road trip, right?”

He blinks, hard. Caleb shifts closer at the hesitation in his look. He doesn’t know how to confront it—he tips his head to say _I’m listening. With you so far._ (That probably can’t be conveyed in a minute nod, but he tries anyway, throat too dry to attempt verbal speech.)

One hand draped over the wheel and the other tapping on his thigh, Molly continues, “A few months earlier, I’d been doing some stupid shit, apparently. And one day I, uh, hit my head pretty hard. Went into a coma and all.

“When I woke up, I couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.” His voice lowers to almost a whisper. Caleb leans closer to hear it over the whistling traffic and the music. “I—some of it came back later, but my—my mom died when I was young, like I told you. I don’t remember her voice. I might not have anyway, I was so young, but this—this was for sure. And that’s just—I remembered how to do basic things, y’know. Go to the bathroom, tie my shoes….” A brief hesitation, then, “Suck dick.”

Caleb’s startled laugh almost sends his forehead into the dashboard. On instinct, it seems, Molly’s arm shoots out and catches him in the chest. When Caleb looks up gratefully, Molly’s face is hard to read.

“You do not have to joke to make it easier,” murmurs Caleb. “It’s—I do not mind a rough story.” That’s putting it lightly.

“Wasn’t a joke,” says Molly, and Caleb rolls his eyes. “Plus, it—it isn’t that. If I tell you the raw, unfiltered version, I might cry, and that’s too much for a grocery trip.”

“I—” Caleb licks his lips and sits back, knees knocking together. He doesn’t know what to do when people cry; it’s the thing he’s worst around, what he shuts down around. Hell, he doesn’t even know what to do when _he_ cries. Even so, he reaches out to pat Molly’s hand, fallen back to the console. “I don’t mind.”

It’s a half-truth, but Molly’s eyes dart to him, brief enough that it doesn’t cause any accidents as the traffic flows forward. “All right, then.” He leans back forward, white-knuckling the wheel. “Right, so, I woke up in a hospital bed not knowing my name or my dad’s face or my friends’ voices, and that’s my first memory. Fucked up, huh?”

“That—that would fuck you up, ja. How old were you?” Caleb remembers him saying _I was sixteen, maybe,_ but that isn’t an exact. He thinks back to when _he_ was sixteen.

Those aren’t pleasant thoughts. He pushes himself back to the present, grounds himself in the fact that his hand is still grazing Molly’s.

Molly exhales. “I’d just turned sixteen. According to my best friend at the time, I’d had the best sweet sixteen in town two weeks before the accident.” He smiles, wry, and shakes his head. “Don’t remember it, of course. I only—I could only remember little things when it finally started coming back. Not any full memories, just snippets.

“Had trouble with short-term to start with, too. Words, especially—all I said for _weeks_ was ‘empty.’ And that first memory I had wasn’t the first time I woke up, according to the nurses. That was more typical, uh, post-traumatic amnesia.” He taps the steering wheel, eyes going a little blank. “Still got issues with short-term shit, but that’s an ADHD thing and not, like, residual effects as far as I’m aware.”

Caleb nods, small. “So you went on a road trip,” he says, as casual as he can.

“I—I did.” Molly laughs, a weak one. “I woke up with a black hole in my head and, once I’d remembered what cars were and rented a few coming of age classics, I went to the friends I didn’t remember and asked ‘em to go on a cross-country road trip that summer. I guess—I guess I was trying to find myself, or something like that.

“It sucked, at first,” he continues. They’re creeping closer and closer to the shopping center, and Caleb fidgets in his seat. “Had awful mood swings and still could barely speak. I did end up finding myself, kinda—first off, I realized I was genderfluid and incredibly bisexual, which the old asshole up here—” he taps his temple “—might’ve been too. But nobody would tell me, and I didn’t wanna ask because I didn’t want to know—still don’t, to be honest—so no clue about that.”

Caleb snorts. Apparently comforted by it, Molly smiles and drums the next classic rock song’s beat into the wheel, weighing his words before he goes on.

“I started dying my hair and wanting tattoos and piercings, too,” he says, prodding the snake curling along his forearm and then the studs on his eyebrow. “And then I happened upon this occult-themed tourist trap. Either Oregon or Washington—both very pretty, both _very_ fucking weird.”

 _Like you,_ Caleb is tempted to say, but he holds his tongue.

“And that, dear, is where I got my first tarot cards.” Molly wiggles his hands and exhales, a heavy _whoosh_ of breath. His eyes keep flickering between Caleb and the road—gauging his reactions but not lingering too long. “It was maybe a week after that that I decided I wanted to be a teacher. I just wanted to help people. Kids, especially.”

Caleb’s eyes dart, subconscious, toward Nott, still fast asleep. His gaze softens.

“After that, everybody was talking about how much they missed the—” drawing up air quotes, he affects his voice with a deep gravel “—‘old Mollymauk.’ Well, fuck ‘em!” says Molly, shouting it to the wind. Snickering, Caleb watches Molly’s hand splay across his chest. “Whatever asshole was here before, I don’t care. I don’t want to know what the old Mollymauk was like. All that matters is that I’m here now. So what if I woke up someone new? That’s me now.”

There’s a long stretch of quiet as Molly sucks in a breath, seeming surprised by his own rising volume. Caleb takes it in with slow nods.

“I believe in second starts,” he says gently. “And I like the Mollymauk Tealeaf I have come to know.”

Fingers laced together on the wheel, Molly smiles, teeth poking out over his lips. His chest—and the Celtic cross necklace resting upon it—heaves with each steadying inhale and exhale.

“In four, hold seven, out eight,” murmurs Caleb, unable to help himself.

Molly’s head snaps up. “You got those breathing exercises too, huh.”

Despite himself, Caleb grins shakily. “Ja. I started seeing a therapist in sixth grade for autism, generalized and social anxiety, and OCD. Not the—the neat freak stereotype, actual obsessive-compulsive disorder.” He’s had to explain that to people so many times—for both him and Nott—that it bursts out, a little harsh, but Molly nods with a smile. He takes a deep breath, then adds, “And another during college. For—for mostly post-traumatic stress disorder, pyrophobia, and agoraphobia. As well as the others.”

“Oh,” says Molly, soft. He echoes Caleb’s move from earlier and pats his hand. “You don’t, uh—you don’t have to—just because I shared my tragic backstory doesn’t mean you have to, dear. But I’m all ears if you’d like to talk.”

The fluorescent shopping center sign looms into view. It seems unfairly like an omen. Warmth pricks at the corners of Caleb’s eyes, and he huffs with a small smile. “Another day?”

“Of course, dear, and I’ll be honored when that day comes.”

(Immediately after saying so, Molly goes pink and doesn’t say much more until he drops Caleb and a stirring Nott off at their house.

Caleb _does_ appreciate the offer. He’ll think about it, he decides.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!!! see you next week!!
> 
> vehicle notes b/c it's relevant:  
> \+ caleb: volkswagen beetle  
> \+ molly: volvo c70 (painted purple)  
> \+ beau: dodge ram 1500  
> \+ fjord: kia sedona  
> \+ jester: ford mustang (painted bright pink)  
> \+ yasha: subaru forester + harley-davidson street 500
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	9. part ii, chapter iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more conversations are had (in cars and out) and a cold war begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for this chapter (all mentioned/implied and not described in detail):  
> \+ manipulation + physical and emotional abuse from a teacher figure  
> \+ death via fire/arson  
> \+ the aftermath of the above, including a stay at a psychiatric hospital
> 
> these are all only present in the first scene, and i am more than willing to provide a briefer description of said scene if needed. that said, enjoy! (putting this up a bit early again bc i have a lot of work to do tonight)
> 
> (also, wholly unrelated: i don't think i can slip keg in with edits in future chapters, so i'd like to say it is 100% verse canon that she + beau dated during college and she's a greasy mechanic or something now. i absolutely want to write about modern au keg sometime, even though i haven't been keeping up with new eps so all i know of her is what happened in the parts of ep 26 i've watched)

In another half-week, Caleb has gotten his car into a decent quality auto repair place, with assurances it’ll be out by the end of January. He sits mournfully on the curb and watches as they tow it away. Nott pats his shoulder with as little sympathy as possible but looks rather tearful herself.

It’s like the end of a western—a beloved mode of transportation disappearing into the literal sunset. Caleb can almost see the Gothic-script _THE END_ overlaid on the scene. It’s also not at all like that, since it’s well into the twenty-first century and in a lower-middle-class neighborhood rather than an unincorporated desert community.

He means to tell Molly about this the next morning when he picks them up for school. He doesn’t, and then pretends not to see Nott’s raised eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

It has been fourteen days since his car broke down—not quite a habit, but on the road to one. The preceding four months of car rides with just Nott had been awkward; these were more so at first. It’s something of a shock for him to realize how much comfort he takes in them.

So Caleb doesn’t mention it. On the ride home, he clears his throat and says (perhaps inspired by the true—if temporary—loss of his car), “I am going to tell you the story of how I saw my parents die.”

Nott sits bolt upright. “Caleb—”

“It is all right, Mäuschen.” Beside Caleb, Molly is frozen, fingers stiff on the keys. Caleb takes a deep breath and fixes his gaze forward. “I would like to tell this story. Please drive, by the way.”

“Right,” says Molly.

Caleb doesn’t begin talking until they’ve pulled out of the school parking lot. Nott is still blinking at him, gloved hand on the passenger seat’s shoulder. They were her parents too, he reminds himself, even if only legally for a year or so—and she’d been there, too, even if she hadn’t shattered like he had.

“When I was about thirteen,” he says, caution in each word, “I received the opportunity to attend a very prestigious boarding school. The headmaster had—he’d met my parents at a school event and seen my grades. He decided—” his lip curls bitterly “—to make me a charity case.

“There were two other students,” he murmurs. “Dirt poor German Americans like me, and both smart, too. We were in the same TAG program. The headmaster took us under his wing personally, shaping us for high school. He was a—a cruel man, to say the least.” His hands shake. He ignores it, settling his gaze on an upcoming stop sign, the red burning against his eyelids as he squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again. “He did—he did things that I would prefer not to describe. He tested us and how far we would go for him over the next couple of years. The final test, to ensure our admission into—”

His voice breaks before he can say _the Soltryce Academy_. Caleb swallows, eyes tightly shut, around the rising lump in his throat. He’s well aware Molly is watching him out of the corner of his eye—his driving is slower than usual, and Caleb appreciates it.

He considers backtracking: talking about the fire in Astrid’s eyes and hair, about Eodwulf’s glittering smile and go-getter spirit. About, the back of his mind murmurs, how he desperately loved them both. It makes him think about how long it’s been since he’s seen either of them—he doesn’t know if, in the end, they’d broken free.

And so he goes on. He inhales and exhales, letting the tension seep out of him if but for a brief moment, and then keeps talking.

“For years, Professor I—the headmaster had been turning us against our parents.” He bites his lip, refusing to speak his name and swallowing the sharp taste of it. Nott’s hand tightens on his seat. “He lied to us about where their loyalties were, things they had said about us, things they had said about _him._ I had always known he was manipulative—and until the instant he told me my parents were not who they claimed to be, I admired that.

“But he wanted us to cut them off for good. However we could accomplish that. The more gruesome, the better. I—I tried to refuse.” This, he recalls in vivid detail—Ikithon leaning into his space, all of the courage Caleb had within his scrawny body exploding out of him, his classmates’—his best friends’—backs turning on him. Same old story. “I _did_ refuse. He swore I would regret it, and….”

Molly is still silent, but his free hand closes over his mouth. Nott exhales shakily. Caleb shuts his eyes and remembers the scene—he’d been driving her home, despite the dubious legality of having a ten-year-old passenger as a seventeen-year-old with only a permit. The fire truck’s siren had been blaring for the entirety of their drive, but they’d ignored it until it drew closer and closer, and then fear had sunk in. They’d hit their neighborhood, and the first thing Caleb had seen was their garage wreathed in flames.

He inhales and drags himself back to the moment at hand. “I knew that it was not an issue with the wiring. That is—that is what the fire department told us when they came to get us from the driveway.” Or rather, what Nott had told him the fire department had told them. That part, he had forgotten. His eyes sting. He squeezes them shut again. “I was—I was standing there, in front of my burning house, and I just—I heard my parents scream. And I… I broke, a bit.”

That’s the only way he can put it, in words that don’t all string together; his mind had torn itself apart. He recalls Molly describing a black hole in his head. Compared to that, Caleb’s startling mental clarity and attention to detail before everything just _snapped_ had been an already unstable star collapsing in on itself. Nott’s fingers graze his shoulder, and on instinct, Caleb reaches up to take her hand. Molly glances back to the road, eyes wide.

“I spent the next several years in a psychiatric hospital.” Caleb runs his free hand through his hair, taking another few shaky breaths. “I—I do not remember much of it. Only a woman coming to see me near the end of my stay. A therapist who specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder and recovering repressed memories.” Despite himself, he snorts. “Unlike you, my problem was not that I couldn’t remember. It was that I could. I could remember every fucking thing. I _still_ remember everything.

“But nonetheless,” he says, gesturing at nothing, “I was released three years, five months, and nine days later. And I heard, then, that the headmaster had died.” Molly’s mouth opens—Caleb holds up a hand. “I do not know how, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Still, it took months for me to even go outside. Nott got me to see a therapist and work on reconnecting with the world, because I—I had not properly graduated from high school, but I still wanted to go to college. Do something with books.

“And here I am.” Wiping his face, Caleb stares at the dashboard and squeezes Nott’s hand. “I do not like fire, and I know he is dead but still constantly watch my back to make sure he is not there, and I do not like myself most days, but I’m still _here_. I think that is good enough, ja?”

“Here you are,” whispers Molly. “Yes, Caleb, that’s more than good enough.”

It takes Caleb a few seconds of blinking and breathing to realize they’ve stopped—in front of his house, in fact. Molly reaches out slowly and squeezes his shoulder. Instead of jerking away, Caleb’s gut reaction is to lean into it. Nott’s fingers tighten on his.

“This is—” says Molly, and then he stops. “I won’t say I’m sorry, because people saying sorry always sucks. Been there, done that.”

Caleb laughs—a weak, wet noise. “Ja, it does. Which part do are they even apologizing for?”

Though Molly smiles now, his eyes are still soft and glassy. “What I will say, Mr. Caleb, is that I’m proud of you, and—and thank you for telling me.” He licks his lips and adds over his shoulder, “Proud of you, too, dear. You would’ve been—what, nine?”

“Ten,” says Nott, small. “I, uh, had to stay with Caleb’s aunt in Cincinnati ‘til I turned eighteen.”

Molly hums. Instead of dwelling on the words, Caleb drops his hand from Nott’s to rub his eyes. He sniffs and lowers his head—he’s not sure whether he’s consciously hiding his weak smile or not. “Well, Mx. Mollymauk, I suppose I should thank you for sharing as well.”

“And you’d just started calling me Molly,” he says, shaking his head.

“…You noticed.”

Molly’s mouth opens and then shuts, brow furrowing as he looks away. His expression is gentle but unfathomable. “Yeah.”

A quiet beat. Caleb wipes his face, eyes already aching and watering more (not to mention his stuffy nose), and ignores Nott—also sniffling—looking between him and Molly in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the fat tears rolling down her face. Caleb doesn’t bother pointing them out.

“I—um—I have a pack of tissues in the glove compartment,” says Molly.

Caleb is now morbidly curious about what else may be in there, but he shakes his head. “No thank you. I—we—we should be going, it is almost dinner time—”

“We’re just going to have pizza or something,” says Nott quickly, and Caleb’s thoughts fill with dread, “but do you want to stay for dinner, Molly?”

All thoughts of crying and his parents melt away, overcome with how much he either wants to shrivel up and die or whack his sister over the head with something heavy. Or perhaps both.

Molly blinks. “I’d love to.”

The latter impulse is now paired with the urge to hug Nott. Caleb settles for taking her hand again, squeezing her knuckles, and sending a subtle glare over his shoulder.

She just smiles.

+

As promised, Caleb’s car is out of the shop by the last Tuesday of January. “It’s good as new,” the voicemail promises, “or at least all in one piece.” After listening to it first thing in the morning, Caleb is filled with equal amounts of surprise, relief, and distress.

He sits in bed a few minutes longer than usual, since he can do that again. Nott is already scuffling about—he hears her slam into something and yelp and, like an afterthought, muffle the following string of swears. It’s been enough time for him to consider the carpooling a habit. Caleb is pretty sure he’s required to have an emotional attachment to the Volvo itself now, having spilled most of his guts inside.

Forty minutes later, the drive is more uncomfortable than usual. Nott doesn’t say a word to either of them, spending most of her time murmuring to Frumpkin. Molly seems to pick up on the awkward aura but goes on singing softly to Queen. As soon as they’ve parked, Caleb blurts, “I—thank you very much for the past few weeks, Molly, but my car is good to go, so—”

Already halfway out the door, face turned away, Molly pauses. A beat of silence—Nott (who he hadn’t mentioned the development to) makes a noise of mixed emotion in the backseat. Then Molly turns with a calm smile and says, “Congratulations!” He reaches clumsily over to pat Caleb’s shoulder, a quick _tap-tap_. “I have to go set up my new seating arrangement—should take an hour at most—but we can talk more later, dear.”

That does the opposite of ease Caleb’s anxiety. He wafts throughout the morning, brain only slightly adjacent to his body. It’s a bad day to be spacing out all through, given he’s proctoring state testing sessions every couple hours. _Without_ Nott’s presence, since she isn’t licensed.

“Sorry,” he says at around eleven, in the midst of shooing her out.

She gives him a withering look that lacks actual heat. “I’m going to go help out in Yasha’s class.”

Caleb is certain her class is in the gym right now but doesn’t bother saying so. Nott grins and dashes down the hall. “No running!”

Very maturely, she pauses to stick her tongue out, blow a raspberry, and pull down her lower eyelid. He sighs as she runs right into (and is then apprehended by) Gustav. Ignoring her startled yelping, Caleb sticks a _TESTING IN SESSION_ sign to his door and slams it shut. He can still hear her outside. He might have to invest in relaxation tapes.

The five students in the room are all third graders. Each one looks terrified. Caleb sets a laptop down in front of each one, all already set to testing site because he doesn’t trust them to open it themselves. He pins a sheet of login instructions to the nearest wall.

“Follow these,” he says, in as commanding yet encouraging a voice he can manage. “If you have a question or would like to pause your test, raise your hand. I will be over—” he points at a random area of the library “—there the whole time.”

The session goes without much incident, aside from several reluctant bathroom breaks and Caleb pointing at the sheet in response to various questions. _No, I cannot help you with the answers,_ he says at least twice. He releases them after forty-five minutes—half of the first English test is complete, none of the math. Caleb waves, halfhearted, as they leave.

Nott reappears as if summoned the instant they’ve vanished upstairs. “Yasha and her class weren’t in her classroom,” she says, pulling a face she’s definitely learned from Jester, “so I had to wait outside until she picked the kids up from Beau.”

“Hm,” says Caleb. He glances at the clock, then swears under his breath—he starts in English but switches to German once he spots a gaggle of students outside. “Would you mind taking my lunch and recess duty, Schwesterherz? I—I have to go do something.”

Nott’s eyes go big. “Are you going to talk to Molly?”

Caleb doesn’t answer. (He should have a talk with Jester, he decides at the back of his mind, because the tone Nott uses on the word _Molly_ is not one he’s heard from her before.) Five minutes later, that’s exactly what he goes to do.

He steps into the staff lounge and glances around, hoping Molly hasn’t left for lunch already. Scanning the room, he sags with relief when he sees the unmistakable purple-haired head between Yasha and Fjord. Caleb is aware everyone in the room has turned to look at him. He brushes it off as best he can and crosses the room to ask, “May I speak with you?”

Molly blinks. He swallows a bit of his sandwich, then says, “Of course, dear, one moment—”

Behind Molly’s back, Fjord flashes Caleb a wink and a smile; Yasha, a presumably encouraging set of thumbs-up. Both make warmth rush to Caleb’s ears. In another part of the room, Horris sighs mid-conversation with Dolan. Molly stuffs the rest of his sandwich—a good half of it—into his mouth and gets to his feet, still chewing.

“Classy,” mutters Yasha.

Molly rolls his eyes and gestures to Caleb as if to say _lead the way_.

They make their way upstairs with little noise aside from Molly’s chewing and no issues. The few classes they pass don’t remark on their presence. Sure, teachers raise eyebrows at the librarian and three-four split teacher walking with about a foot of space between them, the latter still working on swallowing half of a sandwich, but they say nothing, perhaps picking up on the _if you talk to me I might die on the spot_ vibes Caleb is setting off.

Caleb stops outside the first open classroom he sees—Dolan’s—and waits for Molly to step in before he follows. The door clicking shut after them is a somewhat ominous sound, even if he’s the one to close it. He strides past Molly and to Dolan’s desk, leaning against it. As soon as he opens his mouth, however, he shuts it again with an audible crunch.

Molly, hovering by the door, raises his eyebrows. The cool sunlight from the large windows outlines him in silver, and—that is not the point, Caleb tells himself. He clears his throat and tries again.

“About the car—I—” His words stick together, accent stronger, and he winces. He realizes, in one fell swoop, a) how much he had not planned this conversation and b) how much he dislikes spontaneity. Taking another deep breath, Caleb twists his fingers together around his waist. “I really am sorry to have caused you any issues, ja, and you do not have to—to take pity on me anymore. I—the car rides were very nice, and I do truly appreciate it, but I would like to apologize for the inconvenience. Things can go back to normal now, so—”

Molly’s brow furrows, and his frown deepens throughout the small speech. “It wasn’t pity,” he says, cutting the end of Caleb’s sentence off (and now he’s not even sure where it had been going). “I, uh—just curious, dear, why do you assume it was?” His voice is far too gentle—kind but not condescending.

“People do not just—” Caleb flushes, remembering Nott telling him _let people be nice to you_ and him promising _I can try_ , but he continues on. His eyes squeeze shut. He’s not sure he wants to see Molly’s reaction. “No such thing as a free lunch.”

A few seconds of silence. Caleb opens his eyes to see Molly a few inches closer than he had been a moment ago. Something like concern is etched across his features. “Caleb,” he says, soft, seeming not to notice the decreasing distance, “I’m sorry if I did something to make you feel like I was taking pity on you—”

“Nein, no, it’s not—” Caleb stops again, realizing he’s about to say _it’s not you, it’s me_. His lips twitch despite the tense air. “It was just—I realized, somewhere, that I had grown attached to….” He pauses. Too long. “The, uh, the routine.”

“Right,” says Molly, tone unreadable. He tucks his hands behind his back and murmurs something—Caleb can’t make it out, but he doesn’t think it’s in English. Molly’s head lifts, quirking to one side. “Well, dear, I don’t know how much it will relieve you to hear, but I don’t do things out of pity. I _do_ , however, do things for my friends to help them out, and I would be happy to continue driving you and Nott if you asked. Even if it’s not out of necessity.”

He’s smiling through it all. A small, sincere smile. Caleb, suddenly very warm, drops his eyes to his boots—the permanent muck and peeling bits of cotton and fake leather give him something to focus on in the silence that follows. The only thing he’s able to say is a feeble, “We’re friends?”

Staring down still, he watches Molly’s shoes creep closer. His head jerks up when a hand falls hesitantly on his arm. Molly’s smile remains, gaze imploring as he says, “Do you normally ask people who aren’t your friends for daily car rides? Or swap trauma stories with them?” Caleb winces, and Molly leans back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to put it like that.”

“Ah, it’s—I—no.” Caleb’s brain short-circuits at the proximity. He looks anywhere but at Molly’s face. “I—I don’t—I _do_ know we are friends—” it shouldn’t be, but that’s like pulling teeth to say “—but, uh. I have not had friends besides Nott—and Beau—in a long time. On a logical level, ja, I know I am friends with you, as well as Jester and the others, just—”

“It’s hard to accept,” says Molly, and Caleb nods. “I’m familiar with the feeling.”

They stand in silence, comfortable again, until the bell rings. As if startling awake from a dream, Molly jerks his hand back from Caleb’s arm at the sound. Caleb shivers at the loss before he can stop himself. He’s reminded, however, that he has an actual fucking job he should be doing now.

“If you—you meant that, about still driving us,” says Caleb, eyes darting between the top of Molly’s head and the door, “then would you mind driving me and Nott to the auto repair place after school? I should at least pick my car up.” Its keys burn a hole in his pocket.

Molly smiles a little wider. “I haven’t minded being a ferry so far. Hardly going to now.”

Caleb pats him on the arm. “Ja, ja. Thank you and I will see you this afternoon, then—”

In something of an unnecessary rush, he strides past Molly and toward the doorway—he stops when he steps into the hall and, regretful, looks over his shoulder. Molly’s fingers have come up to brush his upper arm. He drops them when he notices Caleb’s gaze. After a beat, his characteristic smirk returns, and he does a little mock salute.

“See you later, Mr. Caleb.”

+

A week into February, Caleb is having a decent, uneventful Thursday night—his life hasn’t gotten any better, but it hasn’t gotten any worse either. That’s a success in his eyes. And then, of course, he’s stirred from reading by a series of casual knocks at the door, where he finds a decidedly drunk Beau.

“Hey, so,” she says, leaning against the door frame with one hand behind her back, “d’you mind if I come in for a few minutes? ‘Cause I’m already here, and I brought some good fuckin’ alcohol.”

“You already seem drunk.” Caleb narrows his eyes and stares at her glazed eyes and askew hair. “Are you going to come in no matter what my response is?”

“Eh, probably.”

Caleb makes a split-second decision: he’d rather have her drunk in here than outside. Speaking of—“You didn’t drive here, did you?” he asks.

Beau gives him a flat look. “No. I—Yasha was gonna drop me off at my flat after tonight, but we sorta, uh—anyway, I jogged over from her place.”

He has no clue where Yasha lives, and Beau’s still standing upright somehow, so he doesn’t question it. With a sigh, he steps aside to let Beau saunter in. She is, indeed, clutching a sweaty bottle of beer—just not a good kind. Caleb wrinkles his nose and almost doesn’t see a bleary-eyed Nott creep into the living room, head tilted.

“Beau?” Her eyes widen as soon as the scent of trashy alcohol fills the room. “Hand over the damn beer.”

Beau whistles at the sharp tone, but does as Nott asks. As soon as it’s out of her hands, Beau flings herself down onto the couch and huffs. Caleb opens his mouth. Increasingly concerned with the scene laid out before him—Beau mumbling and almost knocking Frumpkin out of his seat with her bare feet, Frumpkin leaping off the couch, Nott tipping back the bottle of cheap beer—he waffles for a moment. Frumpkin shoots him a weary look. Caleb returns it.

“Did you—” he starts, turning toward Beau, and his mouth clamps shut. “Did you walk here barefoot?”

“Maybe so,” says Beau. “Can’t prove it.”

“You aren’t wearing any fucking shoes.”

Beau throws up her arms in sarcastic applause. Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose as hard as he can. Nott lowers the bottle of beer and hops up onto the couch, then shoves at Beau’s legs to make room for herself. She fits neatly under Beau’s leg once she gets Beau to lay them across the back of the couch.

Caleb doesn’t want to think about what’s _on_ Beau’s feet. And that’s thus on his couch (though it isn’t like it’s in stellar quality in the first place). He folds his arms and steps toward the coffee table, pleased with how he looms over the two drunk women—well, one drunk and one tipsy—on his couch.

“Why are you here, Beauregard?” he says, softer than he means to.

“Ughhh.” Beau swipes the beer back from Nott, who squeaks in complaint and makes grabby hands at her. Eyes shut and head tipped back over the armrest, Beau doesn’t seem to notice. After a few glugs, she swings her head back down. “Me and Yasha had a fight. Didn’t wanna be there anymore, ‘nd you’re close and also the most likely to just get trashed with me, not try and convince me to—” air quotes “—‘talk shit out.’”

A long pause (during which Nott takes advantage of Beau looking at Caleb to seize the beer). Caleb sighs, says, “Okay,” and nudges Beau aside so he can sit on her other side.

Beau moves without protest; she shifts with her back up against Caleb’s side, her knees tucked to her chest, and her feet pressing into Nott’s thigh. She knocks her head against Caleb’s shoulder and hums. “Well, you’re the most likely to do all of that and not simultaneously be talking to Yasha, so.”

“Ah,” says Caleb. Awkward, he reaches around to pat the top of Beau’s head, where her topknot is halfway undone. “What did you fight about?”

“I dunno,” snaps Beau, jerking further up so they’re no longer pressed against each other. “Some dumb shit. Nott, quit hogging the beer already.”

“You can’t make me!” screams Nott. Caleb winces.

“Wanna bet?” says Beau.

Nott continues glaring at her, suckling on the bottle. A couple charged moments pass—then, in the blink of an eye, Beau jabs Nott in the solar plexus and Nott gasps and doubles over. Beau reclaims her beer with a whoop.

“All right,” says Caleb, getting to his feet. “I do not want to share saliva either one of you—”

“We share blood, Cay-Cay!”

Caleb rubs his temples. “No, Schwesterherz, we biologically do not.” Nott’s face crumples with offense. “As I was saying, I am going to go get actual cups so neither of you contracts mono. Would you like anything else?”

“Better beer,” says Beau. Nott points at her.

Caleb does as requested—he digs through his cupboards for a couple suspiciously quiet minutes to retrieve three cups and a bottle of Budweiser. It isn’t a great alternative, but it’s the only beer he has. (He should go to the store more.)

“ _Hell_ yes,” says Beau when he comes back out. She drags out the _l_ , her head tipped back over the armrest and her cheap bottle hefted into the air like a toast. “Let’s get wasted, folks.”

Wrinkling his nose, Caleb shoves her aside again to sit. He sets the three cups down on the coffee table and pops the Budweiser open. With a devious smile on her face and a glint in her eye, Beau whirls to face him and lifts her beer. _Oh no,_ thinks Caleb, attempting to wriggle backward—

He isn’t fast enough. Beau slams her bottle atop his. Foam bursts forth, spewing across Caleb’s knuckles and leaking onto the floor as he holds the Budweiser desperately away.

“Fuck you,” he shouts, around a helpless snicker. Nott giggles frantically. On the floor, his delightful, curious, stupid cat slinks back toward them. “Frumpkin, no—don’t eat that—”

Forty-some minutes and three Budweisers later, Caleb is calmer and definitely drunk. Nott is sprawled on her back across the couch, feet propped up on the back, and Beau is face-down on the (unstained bit of the) carpet. He doesn’t know if she’s asleep and doesn’t want to check.

Instead, with an alcohol-induced smile across his face, Caleb pats the back of the couch. He’s aiming for Nott’s ankles. He doesn’t reach them. “I am going to go—er—try and read now.”

Nott, eyes crossed, doesn’t reply. Caleb heads into his bedroom to unearth yet another well-loved novel. He runs his hands across one shelf, seeing but not processing the titles—when he decides on one, it’s only because he likes the red hue of the spine and its frayed texture. _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._ He notes somewhere that the title is missing something, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

The words blur together; as soon as he’s read one line, it slips out of his memory and he has to reread it several more times until he gives up and moves on. Sober, he could recite most of his shelves without thinking too hard. Drunk, though—forget it.

He’s interrupted from reading, only five pages in, by a weak wail from the living room. He sits upright. The blubbering is followed with a squeak and a wobbly shout of, “CALEB?”

With a sigh, Caleb sets his book aside and fumbles his way back out. He finds Beau on her knees, head burrowed in the couch cushions and shoulders trembling. Nott is tucked up into herself, half on the armrest and half on the couch itself. She looks intensely uncomfortable with the situation. Her eyes lock onto Caleb when he steps in—relief floods her compressed form.

“She—she started crying,” she says, “and I—don’t, er, know what to do—”

Caleb isn’t any better with emotions than Nott (worse, even), he wants to say, but Beau gives another miserable sob and lifts her head from the couch. Her bloodshot eyes have gone puffy around the edges. It’s… weird. He hasn’t seen her fully cry in years, so the tears trailing down her flushed face unnerve him.

Discomfort washing over him in waves, Caleb steps over to the couch and sits on the floor beside her. “What’s. Um. What is wrong?”

“The fuck do you think?” Well, at least she’s still Beau. She sniffles and drags her white-knuckled fist across her face, but tears keep flowing. “Fuck, shit, god _dammit_ —” At the volume, Caleb shrinks back. “Man, I really—I _really_ like her.”

“Ja, you told me so,” says Caleb, sure this is true through some hazy recollection. He almost follows it up with a weak _right?_ but holds himself back. Doesn’t stop him from _thinking_ it.

Beau scrunches up her nose. “I know,” she says, throwing up her arms, and Caleb relaxes in relief. He glances back—Nott is gripping the standing lamp, and her eyes dart between him and Beau. “Shit. I think I _love_ her.”

“Well,” says Caleb. “That is, uh.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Beau wipes her face again; this time, she doesn’t burst out into another set of sobs. Her eyes are still puffy and nose still dribbling. “Uncharacteristic, whatever. So—so, like, she told me upfront she wasn’t looking for a real relationship. Which, cool, I didn’t have any issues. Other fish ‘n’ all.”

“Probably none as big as her though,” mutters Nott. “Or hot.”

Without looking away from Caleb, Beau flips her off. Nott mumbles something else. Caleb takes a deep, steadying breath and says, “Okay.”

“‘Kay, so, tonight—” Beau cuts herself off with a long sigh. Caleb stares at a spot on the wall above her head. “And the fight—well, it wasn’t—it wasn’t actually really a fight? More of, like, a—a—a… a severance.”

“So you do know big words,” says Caleb.

“Fuck off,” says Beau. “Anyway, it wasn’t a fight. It was about stupid shit, though. Not even the fact that I’m—okay, shit, I’m pretty sure I didn’t even _believe_ in love. Saw too much. Then I—Yasha.” She makes another frustrated sound and buries her head in her hands. A moment later, she lifts it, red-rimmed gaze wistful. “I don’t even—I don’t see her as this Amazonian goddess anymore? Like, she’s hot and great and could bench press me, obviously, but she—she isn’t perfect. But I still just want to be with her. In whatever way possible.”

Caleb takes this all in, watching Beau’s expression for any change in expression—none occurs. On the couch, Nott makes a soft _aw_ sound. Caleb ignores this and says, slowly, “I would say ‘in love’ is an apt description, then, ja.”

“Thanks, asshole.” Beau slips her legs out from under her to kick Caleb in the shin. Nott squeaks in protest—Caleb holds out a hand. “So, uh, in summary? I don’t know what the hell to do and I don’t know what _she_ wants me to do and, uh, I’m gonna fall asleep in like five minutes now.”

He pats her on the back of the head. “You do that.” He straightens up, glancing up to meet Nott’s wide, glassy eyes. “Will you help me get her onto the couch?”

After they’ve done just that, Beau’s dead weight no help at all, Caleb squeezes Nott’s shoulders and flounders back to his bedroom again. By now, some fuzz has left the corners of his vision and he doesn’t trip over his feet more than thrice. He also notes that his thoughts have cleared up.

The strongest thought in his head, though, is, _Christ, what a mess_.

+

Friday and the next Monday, it seems no one can walk down a hallway without also stumbling into Beau and/or Yasha. The worst scenarios occur when both are in the hallway at the same time—the air fills with pure discomfort, they step to opposite sides of the hall and avoid each other’s gazes, any other people shiver uncontrollably until they’ve left.

So Caleb can hardly be blamed for going to unreasonable lengths to escape this situation. Upon seeing Beau on one end of the hall and Yasha on the other, he hopes the nearest door is unlocked and—lo and behold—ducks inside. As he sighs in relief at the click behind him, he’s hit with the scent of sweet vanilla. The counselor’s office.

He looks up to see three figures peering at him—Jester is here for once, fingers steepled atop her cluttered desk. Fjord blinks, in one of the two chairs dragged before her. Molly is sprawled across the second chair. He lifts a hand in greeting.

Caleb has been in the counselor’s office maybe twice before, since most of Jester’s time is spent in the health room, and so he takes a moment to look around. The office is a wild mishmash of color. A table sits in one corner, opposing the couch and spinny chairs on another side of the room. Presumably, it’s missing the chairs Molly and Fjord occupy now, but two beanbag chairs sit around it as well. Various games and utensils fill a cubby beside the couch. Another shelf, tucked behind Jester’s desk, is stuffed with books for both Jester and the students. The sparkly motivational posters plastering the walls burn into Caleb’s retinas.

Rubbing his eyes, Caleb grabs a spinny chair and slides it over between Fjord and Molly. “I had to get away from Beau and Yasha’s—” he hesitates, a variety of phrases running through his head “—cold war and did not want to run. Your room was closest.”

Jester, still watching him curiously, slumps forward with a groan. “Why won’t they just _talk_ to each other?”

“Insufferable pride,” suggests Molly.

Fjord shoots him a look. “Might could be they just don’t know what to say.”

“Both of the above,” says Caleb blandly. “Probably,” he adds, awkward, when all three turn to look at him again.

“ _Ugh.”_ Jester pouts and frames her chin with her palms. “I want to push them into a supply closet and lock the door until they talk to each other.”

“Don’t do that,” says Fjord.

“Yeah. Yasha hates enclosed spaces,” says Molly.

“I do not think that was the point,” says Caleb, rubbing his forehead.

Molly smiles, jovial, and folds one leg over the other. Jester’s eyes fall on him, then light up in a way Caleb certainly doesn’t trust. She scoots toward the edge of her desk—leaning as close to Molly as she can—and says, conspiratory, “Yasha’s claustrophobia is your only issue with that plan? So, would you mind if I did the same with you and—”

A tattooed hand claps over her mouth. Molly has to lean halfway over the desk to make it work, but he cuts Jester off effectively enough—she squeaks beneath his palm, voice still shrill enough that Caleb winces. As Fjord opens her mouth and raises his eyebrows, Jester’s face scrunches. A beat later, Molly screeches and snatches his hand back.

“I don’t know what’s been on your tongue,” he says with a firm glare to a smirking Jester. Molly glances around, eyeing the sleeves in the vicinity. When Caleb kicks himself back and Fjord proves too far away to reach, Molly scoffs and wipes it on the corner of Jester’s desk instead. She giggles. “But you’re right, they’re the worst. Yasha was on the phone with me for a good two hours last Thursday.”

“Beau came over to my house with a cheap bottle of beer the same night,” says Caleb. “I win.”

Molly shrugs, blinking in recognition. “Yasha said Beau stole a thing of beer from her place, but she didn’t mind ‘cause it was the cheapo kind.”

“I doubt she put it like that.” Fjord rests his chin on his knuckles, elbow digging into the armrest on the kiddie-sized chair he barely fits into. His brows knit together—Caleb can almost see the gears turning. “I mean, I’m very much into letting people do things on their own, but if it’s interfering with the rest of our jobs and _lives_ —”

“Were they not already matchmade?” mutters Caleb.

Molly makes a so-so gesture. Fjord looks between them, then asks, “There somethin’ y’all ain’t telling us?”

“They’ve been sleeping together since November,” says Molly, leaning forward, and Caleb nods in affirmation. “Had a fight last Thursday—”

“I knew it,” says Jester. Fjord blinks, then mimics Caleb’s nod.

Shrugging, Molly waves a hand. “So here we are. The Great Cold War of Zadash Grade School.”

The door creaks open—at once, Caleb’s head snaps around. Beau stands in the doorway, nose scrunched at how suspicious they must look—all huddled up near Jester’s desk in low lighting (though that’s because half the room’s lights are blown out).

“You guys are fu—freaking weird,” says Beau, seeming to have just remembered there might be children in the hallway behind her. “Yeah, so—Jester, I need band-aids. It’s almost Zeenoth’s gym time.”

“I don’t have band-aids in here.” A sweet smile overtakes Jester’s thoughtful, devious smirk from a moment ago. Beau looks unnerved by the sunny disposition. Caleb feels more or less the same. “Just steal some from the health room. You can pay me back later.”

A long stretch of silence. Beau stares at them, they all avoid her direct gaze. To be fair, Caleb does that more often than not. Slowly stepping back out, Beau says, “Sure,” and then slides the door shut behind her.

Caleb and Fjord exhale with relief. Jester sinks back in her chair, pout returning at full force. Molly’s shoulders slack.

“That was a disaster,” says Caleb.

“We’re aware,” says Fjord, at the same time Molly says, “Yeah,” and Jester says, “I hope doesn’t take my Shakespearean insult band-aids. Those are my favorite.”

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I—I agree with Fjord. We cannot interfere with their lives—well, more than a little—but since it is causing me to hide in the counselor’s office when I pass them in the hall—”

“Matchmaking time!” shouts Jester, jumping to her feet.

“Good God, I need more coffee,” says Molly. Caleb can’t blame him.

Fjord, probably the most used to Jester’s volume control or lack thereof, brushes it off. “Jes, what if we make it worse?”

“What if we make it better?” she retorts, lips pursed.

“There ain’t a solid guarantee for either, I reckon,” says Fjord.

“Fifty-fifty chance, tops,” says Molly.

Jester points at Fjord and says, “He’s a bottom, actually.”

Fjord is trying to hold a poker face but looks like he’s about to burst into flames. Caleb buries his head in his hands. Through his fingers, he watches as Molly raises an eyebrow and says, “That’s not—how do—no, you know what, I refuse to talk about that here.”

Jester flashes a toothy beam that, with its radiance, makes Caleb slide his fingers back over his eyes. “So, gang, what’s our Beau and Yasha plan?”

“Well, I could convince Yasha to do something drastic.” Molly straightens up in his chair and snaps his fingers, and Caleb drops his hands back to his sides. “Valentine’s Day is just a couple days off. Yasha doesn’t pay attention to holidays, so I can get her to do something then. Chocolates and some dramatic confession of love.”

“Beau hates Valentine’s Day,” says Caleb.

Molly smiles brightly. “Then she’ll have positive connotations with it from now on, hm?”

Caleb could pick apart that logic if he wanted to, but he’s too busy staring at that smile. Jester giggles behind her palm. Fjord sighs and rubs his face.

“I’ll update you all on the plan once I talk to Yasha,” says Molly, standing and whipping out his phone. “But mark my words, it’ll work. Well, toodles.”

Clapping Caleb on the shoulder as he goes, Molly strolls outside, humming a tune Caleb doesn’t recognize. A short silence follows. Jester drops her wiggling wave and turns her terrifying smirk on Caleb. Leaning toward a sighing Fjord, she says in another stage whisper, “I don’t think Beau and Yasha are the only ones who need to be matchmade—”

“Oh, would you look at the time?” Caleb stands up and pushes his chair back into its original place. “I have, uh, another class now—”

“No you don’t!” shouts Jester, pout clear in her voice, but he’s already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! see you next week for the last chapter of part 2!
> 
> i might do some liner notes for the fic as a whole once it's all been posted, but basic notes about caleb's backstory (since i feel like i changed it more than the others and, uh, anxiety and general chattiness):  
> \+ modern non-magic au, especially one where the character Works At A School, required changes obviously  
> \+ given my personal mental health, i don't think i could have written caleb quite as self-loathing as he is in canon without draining myself. it's still present, obviously, but i thought i might as well ease some of his guilt (i eased him away from his very strong canon self-disgust by implying he's been in therapy for like 2/3 of his life also. Where Are Wildemount's Therapists)  
> \+ another semi-related note: i'm interested on following up on ikithon's death/where astrid and eodwulf are now in a side story, but only when they appear in canon again (and when i catch up)
> 
> eta: hey all, did you know that [travis validated my offhand joke about fjord being a bottom](http://criticalrole.wikia.com/wiki/Fjord#Trivia). i'm pretty sure that info was out in the world before i actually wrote this but i sure did not know about it glad to see i'm always right
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	10. part ii, chapter v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Operation: Valentine's Day commences, scenes are made at the Leaky Tap, and Caleb makes a deal with the devil (not literally, probably).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus christ this fic is so long, you might be thinking at this point. i can promise you it gets longer because i have absolutely no concept of reigning things in. also yet again this is going up early so i have time to work on Stuff(TM) tonight
> 
> don't have much to say this time around except that i've been working on another multi-chapter fic (aiming for 8-10 chapters but my plans tend to get out of hand quickly), as i mentioned a couple weeks ago! [here's a hint in the form of one of the songs i've had on repeat for inspiration reasons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Y86buJDVbk) :3 i'm hoping to launch it next thursday (after i have a significant enough buffer) so.... Stay Tuned?

Valentine’s Day isn’t the highest on Caleb’s holiday shitlist (that low esteem belongs to Independence Day), but it at least deserves second place. He’d mentioned Beau’s hatred of it to the others—what he hadn’t mentioned was his equal distaste.

The pain of waking up and remembering the date is somewhat eased by a text to the group chat including him, Molly, Fjord, and Jester (titled  _Operation: Valentine’s Day_ ). _today’s the day folks_ , Molly had sent at some horrifying hour this morning. Caleb leaves the chat on read—there are no other messages after Molly’s—and goes to get ready for the day.

As soon as he and Nott walk into the school, they’re met with fuschia heart balloons tied around a large vase of flowers on the office counter. Caleb groans and walks right past without so much as a word to a waving Ornna.

More Valentine’s decorations follow them downstairs: red-and-white garlands line various bulletin boards and doorways, romantic music flows from the cafeteria, and stray confetti can be found every few feet. Three guesses as to who’s decorated the school.

“Maybe you’ll get chocolates,” says Nott, breathless, as they go downstairs. Caleb pretends not to hear.

No corner of the school has been saved from the explosions of Valentine’s decorations, not even Caleb’s library. He stops dead in his doorway and stares at the sparkling pink banner of paper hearts dangling across the top of his door frame. He’s tempted to snatch it down, but he sighs and considers the fact that Jester will give him those sad eyes all day if he does. He ducks beneath it and heads inside.

The first things he notices are the two boxes on the counter. One is deep red and heart-shaped; the other is a package of Kinder Eggs with a silver bow on top. Each has a pink sticky note on it, but Caleb can’t make the untidy scrawl out from here.

Nott is already halfway across the room by the time he processes the gifts. “Aren’t these banned?”

“They got legalized a couple years ago, I think—” Distracted, Caleb looks away from Nott to flick the lights on. No other decorations pop out at him, so he steps closer to decipher the sticky notes.

It takes a good thirty seconds, but the heart-shaped box says _MR. CALEB_ , followed by a little horned smiley face. Caleb goes red. He clears his throat and turns his attention back to Nott.

In the time he’s been glancing around the library, she’s popped open the other box—its sticky note reads _MISS NOTT_ —and unwrapped one chocolate egg. She bites the top off in a disturbingly ferocious way. Caleb stares as she presses it against her cheek to chew, then tugs out the small golden capsule. Inside, it turns out, is a tiny plastic cat.

“Oh,” says Nott, holding the cat up to the light. “It’s so cute!”

“Ja, okay—” Caleb reaches out to catch her wrist when she reaches out for another. “Do not eat them too fast, Schwesterherz. You’ll get sick.”

She gives him a beseeching look but does slow down—she sets the cat down on the counter and finishes its chocolate egg before grabbing another. Momentarily relieved, Caleb turns back to his tin. When he pops the lid off, he’s faced with a pile of small red-wrapped spheres. More chocolate. He looks back up at the sticky note and smiles despite himself, a comfortable warmth folding over him.

Nott leans over. “That’s the good Swiss kind,” she says, muffled.

“Eat your own chocolate, Nott.”

“Just _saying_.”

Caleb lets himself have one chocolate (and it is, he discovers, _delicious_ ) and then closes the tin and reserves the rest for lunch. Nott, on the other hand, has eaten almost half her box by that afternoon. Around lunch, she complains of a stomachache, and Caleb feels no pity.

Molly and his class show up in the afternoon. At the sound of Molly’s gentle knock on the door frame, Nott jerks out of a nap and leaps to her feet. She almost falls over as soon as she’s up, a sickly green tint overtaking her face. Caleb suspects he’s done similar in the past, though without the stomach troubles, so this time he does feel a little bad.

“Hello,” she says meekly, sinking back into her chair.

Hiding a smile in his hand, Molly glances across the room. His eyes fall on the open box of Kinder Eggs and wrapping and toys scattered across the counter. “I see Miss Nott enjoyed her chocolates.”

Caleb, in the middle of gesturing Molly’s class over to one side of the room, sighs. “You could say that. Oh, uh—thank you, by the way.”

Molly leans against the door frame and lets his hand drop. “What about you, Mr. Widogast, did you enjoy them?”

“I—ja, I did.” Caleb glances at the students—they’re well-occupied, chatting amongst themselves. He steps over to the doorway, and Molly blinks. Almost subconscious, Caleb glances down and notes the shiny maroon lipstick; he looks hurriedly back up at Molly’s forehead after a beat, knowing how disastrous looking at Molly’s lips could be. “I am… uh. Sorry neither of us have anything in return. We—well, _I_ am not a fan of Valentine’s Day, so we do not do much—”

“Oh, no worries, dear,” says Molly, waving a hand. He looks to the side too, then back again. “One other thing—after school, after the last bus leaves, would you mind making sure Beau gets to the tree out front? I was serious about that plan, y’know.”

“I know,” says Caleb. “And I do not usually stay that long, but I—”

“Why, it’s true love, Mr. Widogast.” Molly pauses, a gleam entering his eyes, and adds in a lower but no less dramatic tone, “You think this happens every day?”

“Don’t quote _The Princess Bride_ at me, I was going to say yes anyway.” When Caleb glances up in frustration, he’s reminded of the banner over them, and his scowl deepens.

Molly follows his gaze and snickers. “Not your idea?”

“Not even close.” Caleb steps back and folds his hands together. “Ja, I will—I will make sure Beau stays for the plan. Hopefully it will work.” He pauses. “I am pretty sure I’m wasting your prep time right now, so I will see you then.”

With a wider grin and a thumbs-up, Molly heads back upstairs. Caleb rushes through what he has planned for the class over the next fifteen minutes: letting them know about new book arrivals, reading a brief selection of _The Hobbit_ because he has way too many copies, and releasing them to go check out. He’s filled with a vague stress toward the mostly-full box of chocolates in his bag, now that there’s actual confirmation they’re from Molly.

It isn’t like he hadn’t already confirmed that to himself, but a part of him had still wondered. Having seen and talked to him, a jittery feeling buzzes through his chest and hands. Why chocolates? Why a luxurious heart-shaped box for him and a more childish brand and box for Nott?

He could answer these questions well enough, if he wanted to jump to conclusions—which he doesn’t. Caleb sits down to keep himself from pacing as he hashes things out in his own brain. The heart-shaped Lindt box had probably been one of the only ones left, and generic at that; it isn’t like Caleb has talked about his chocolate preferences before. Simple as that.

After he almost checks out the first set of books to the wrong student—their barcodes are right next to each other, okay—Caleb decides not to think of the chocolates for now. Even though they’re a literal elephant (or rather, thirty of them) under his desk.

Nott, still a little green, pokes him in the arm. “Are you anxiety spiraling?”

“No,” lies Caleb.

“Hm.”

Before Nott can say anything more, Toya approaches with her books. Caleb doesn’t give Nott a chance to bring it up again, bustling through the anxiety with the sudden urge to spend the next hour reshelving. He keeps an eye on the clock and waits for the time Beau usually leaves.

The clock strikes three-forty-five. Yellow light fills Caleb’s library—a sure sign of the buses’ arrival. He straightens up from hunching over the biography section.

“Hey, Nott,” he calls, and she hums in acknowledgment. “Want to come with me and help Beau and Yasha reunite?”

She stares at him for half a second before leaping to her feet. “Of fucking course, Cay-Cay.”

“Stop calling me that.”

They make their way upstairs, moving quickly but not enough to draw suspicion. Somehow, the amount of Valentine’s decorations has ballooned. Caleb shoves a jungle of foil hearts dangling from the ceiling out of his vision; the under-five-zero Nott ducks and rolls beneath them. Other than the decorations, the hallways are vacant for once. Caleb manages to catch Beau on the steps, and—

“Jiǔyǎng,” he near-yells with false cheer, the first thing that comes to mind.

Beau narrows her eyes. Nott dives behind Caleb with a squeak. Caleb winces at himself as Beau says, slow, “We’ve known each other for, like, eight years, machi. Uh, are you sweating?”

“No,” lies Caleb. He pats Beau’s shoulder and steers her back toward the office.

“Dude, what the f—” Beau stops mid-sentence, catching Ornna looking at her, and scowls. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.” He thinks he’s at least a little more convincing now.

Beau sighs and shakes Caleb’s arm off. “Look, Caleb, you’re all sweaty and gross and it’s really nasty. If the Valentine’s spirit has made you realize your long-ignored feelings for me and you’re being compelled to confess, then—”

“No, stop talking,” says Caleb, pinching the bridge of his nose. Outside, he hears students getting onto the buses. Almost time. He takes a deep, calming breath as Beau blinks with simultaneous relief and confusion. “I am still _very much_ gay and interested in someone else and well aware you are a lesbian. I would just like to have a conversation with my friend before she leaves for the day.”

“All right….”

Caleb keeps control of his breathing as he carries on the small talk. He tries to will some of the sweat away, but that doesn’t work out as well. At least Nott, leaning against the office door with a _yikes_ expression on her face, hadn’t tried to do the talking. If that were the case, Beau would be out the door by now. She can’t walk out for—Caleb glances at the clock—ten more minutes.

He forgets one vital thing: he’s awful at both small talk and improvising in an unfamiliar situation. This is _certainly_ an unfamiliar situation. If he’d done anything similar before, he could use one of his good old scripted contingency plans, but he doesn’t have any now. So at least he gets a good exercise as he attempts to get Beau to stay inside and at school until a little after four on the dot.

Jester comes out of the office at three-fifty-six and joins the conversation after one simple glance. Things ease up. When Beau and Nott break into a brief argument after a minute-and-a-half, Caleb shoots Jester a grateful look. The kind where _I would die and kill for you in this moment_ is written all over his face.

 _No prob,_ she mouths with a wink.

What seems like hours but is logically only five-and-a-half minutes later, the final bus pulls away. Caleb coughs and says, “Well, uh, I suppose that is our cue to go. It has been great talking with you all. Beauregard, do you mind if Nott and I walk you out?”

She still looks perturbed by his behavior, and, well, he can’t blame her. With a shrug, she says, “Uh, sure.”

The door to the office opens, almost knocking Nott over as she scrambles out of the way. Everyone in the entryway glances up at Bryce. Eyes narrowing and arms crossed, Bryce looks over the scene before them, then drops their head into their hand with the heaviest sigh Caleb has ever heard in his life.

“Just go the fuck home, all of you,” they say, sweeping their other hand toward the front doors. _“Please.”_

Caleb nods and hurries out alongside the others, grabbing Nott’s arm in one hand and Beau’s in the other. Jester skips along behind them. He hears the door shut as they step outside, followed by Gustav and Ornna’s laughter, but his attention soon flickers forward as an explosion of sound greets them. Beau sucks in a breath and shrugs Caleb’s hand off.

He soon sees why. Beneath the cherry tree overlooking the front of Zadash Grade School stand three people. Molly hovers on one side, arms crossed as he leans against the base of the tree. Fjord kneels on the opposite side of the tree, bent over a boombox crooning Spice Girls. Between them, in front of the tree, is Yasha.

She looks the most nervous Caleb’s ever seen her. She’s paler than usual, throat bobbing and mouth a thin white line. Her undone hair spills over her shoulders. In one hand, she clutches an overflowing bouquet composed of blue and white and red flowers, wrapped with a cobalt ribbon. In the other, she holds a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

Jester reaches out to push Beau, but she doesn’t have to. Beau stumbles forward without prompting. Caleb exchanges a look with Jester over the top of Beau’s head—Jester looks ready to explode, her balled fists over her mouth and eyes screwed up with her broad smile.

As “2 Become 1” plays, either on repeat or a much longer song than Caleb had thought, Beau approaches Yasha.

“I’m sorry,” they blurt in unison—then, looking sheepishly away, both fall silent again. Fjord coughs and turns down the music.

Beau shuffles her feet. Yasha clears her throat and says, in a soft voice, “I wasn’t ready for a relationship a few months ago, when this all started. But I—” She pauses, eyes flickering over Beau to rest on Caleb. He does the only thing he can think of and holds up a thumbs-up. Yasha smiles. “I really do like you, Beau. You are fascinating, and I can’t get rid of any feelings I’ve had for anyone important to me in the past—” Caleb blinks “—but just because my feelings for you are different, that doesn’t mean they are any lesser. I apologize for the… less than delicate things I said. If you would be interested in being with me—” she presses the chocolate box into one of Beau’s hands, then takes the other hand “—then I would be happy to try us out. For real. As girlfriends.”

Over by the tree, Molly smiles and nods. Caleb has a sneaking suspicion they practiced that confession.

Struck into silence, Beau’s head jerks between Yasha’s hand—enclosed in hers—and the chocolate box in her other hand. She echoes Yasha and clears her throat. Caleb can’t see her face from here, but the sound is surprisingly wet. Blinking, Yasha lets go of Beau’s hand to cup her shoulder instead.

“I’d—if you’re serious,” says Beau, seeming to be going for mock casual but missing the mark completely, “then—then yeah. I really like you too. And, uh—I’m sorry for the shit I did and said too. And I’d be down to date, yeah. Yup. Sounds great.”

Yasha’s lips quirk up. Beau inhales and exhales. Caleb squints and leans forward as her hand, the empty one, slips down to her jacket pocket. When Beau reveals a bright pink bag of Hershey’s Kisses, Fjord claps a hand over his mouth, Jester squeals with delight, Nott gasps, and Molly nods in approval. Caleb swallows a laugh.

“I, uh, got ‘em a few weeks ago. Before our fight.” Beau nudges Yasha’s hand off her shoulder so she can press the bag into it, fingers lingering on Yasha’s palm. “Also, I don’t—I don’t really do flowers, sorry, but I can help you put them in a vase. I know you collect flowers, so—”

Before Beau can finish speaking, Yasha drops the chocolates and flowers in a quick motion and lets them tumble to the ground. Molly’s indignant yell of, “Hey, I lent you the cash for those flowers!” falls on deaf ears as Yasha sweeps Beau into her arms.

With a yelp of glee, Beau lets her chocolate go too, in favor of clinging to Yasha’s shoulders like a lifeline. Yasha smirks down at her. She has to adjust Beau in her grip a few times before the embrace looks comfortable. As soon as Beau’s shoulders relax, though, Yasha swings her down into a dip and kisses her full on the mouth.

Caleb looks away politely, even as Jester wolf-whistles, Molly whoops, and Fjord cranks the music up, grinning from cheek to cheek. Nott slaps a hand over her own eyes. When Caleb looks back down, Beau and Yasha have broken apart, but their foreheads are still together, Beau’s hair ribbon grazing the ground and Yasha’s hold faltering.

They lean apart when Caleb claps, pointed. A sheepish but smug look crosses Beau’s face. She tightens her arms around Yasha’s neck as they straighten back up, Yasha still supporting Beau’s weight in a bridal carry. Yasha leans in to kiss Beau’s forehead, a swift little peck. Beau’s expression _melts_.

Fjord keeps turning the music up, not seeming to notice—he looks between the new couple and Jester with a dopey little smile. Jester giggles and sings along to “2 Become 1,” even though she doesn’t seem to know any of the words. Nott peels her hand off her face.

Molly cheers at the top of his lungs. Some pedestrians give them dirty looks, but he just waves them off and shouts, “Drinks at the Leaky Tap, on Yasha!”

Yasha boos, but everyone else echoes Molly’s cheer.

Even as they all walk toward the parking lot in a comfortable sort of companionship, Yasha doesn’t let Beau go. Beau doesn’t appear to mind even remotely—she keeps clinging to Yasha’s neck and ogling her, sneaking a kiss where she can. Caleb lets Nott and Jester fall behind him, giggling amongst themselves, as he scurries to walk alongside Beau and Yasha.

All he manages to do is pat Yasha’s shoulder and whisper, “Congratulations,” to Beau. She untwines one of her arms from Yasha’s neck to give him an awkward and unaligned noogie.

When Caleb, fighting laughter and pushing Beau’s hand off his scalp, catches Molly’s gaze, he doesn’t think about the chocolates. He smiles, and Molly smiles back, and they keep walking with their friends.

+

A week later, Jester cons Caleb (and Nott, though that takes less effort) into attending the last happy hour of the month. As usual, he doesn’t mind as much as he puts on. He’d last been to one in November, and it had been less… eventful than September’s; there’d been karaoke, naturally, but he’d been able to sit in a corner reading and zone Jester out.

So on Friday, instead of having a candlelit dinner at home and settling into a day without work, he finds himself sitting beside Yasha in the relatively quiet Leaky Tap. He and Yasha have spoken maybe ten words between them—he’d walked in, seen her, and made a beeline over. He’d stopped to ask for a bottle of wine and greet the others, of course. He’s now perfectly content to say nothing more all evening.

His other friends are not. Nott cheers for shots while Beau and Jester exchange looks. Mere seconds later, Caleb glances across the bar to see Molly and Fjord giving Beau and Jester a wide berth as the latter two slam their elbows on the table. Jester clasps Beau’s hand—their drinks lay abandoned on either side, and Nott’s fingers creep toward the glasses. With a cocky smirk, Beau drives Jester’s hand forward.

Quirking her head at the arm wrestling, Yasha mutters, “Is this what déjà vu feels like?”

Caleb remembers Halloween and hums. “That is for a situation you can’t remember, though, so I do not think it applies.”

“True.” Yasha leans back to take a long, long drink.

Fjord raises his eyebrows as Beau and Jester push toward each other, Beau’s arm muscles visibly flexing ( _does she ever wear sleeves?_ wonders Caleb). Everyone else in the bar seems to be looking at the spectacle—except Nott, who’s given up on stealing Beau and Jester’s drinks and instead is slinking away to the bar. Caleb follows Yasha’s example and sips from his wine as bitterly as possible.

“Ten bucks on Blue Hair!” calls Molly.

Jester’s eyes gleam; Beau’s narrow. She tightens her grip on Jester’s hand as Jester shoves her backward. Still, she manages to snap over her shoulder, “Fuck you, Molly.”

“Fuck you too, Beau,” says Molly cheerfully.

The watching patrons, it seems, take interest in his offer—they call out various bets, the specifics of which Caleb misses in the general excitement (and his efforts to ignore it). Fjord shifts in his seat. He appears to be having several internal conflicts about this situation at large.

Molly flashes his teeth in Fjord’s direction. “Any thoughts?”

Fjord doesn’t reply—not verbally, anyway, just with a dour glance and a little head-shake.

“Your loss.” Molly waves a hand, his assortment of rings sparkling in the overhead lights, and then stands. Beside him, Jester seems to have regained the lead, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Oi, Caleb! Yasha!”

Caleb and Yasha give each other the same flat look, then yell back in unison, “Nope.”

The noise all around—people yelling combined with the music overhead—spikes too much for him to tell, but Caleb thinks he hears Molly say, “Spoilsports,” before he drops back into his seat. Beau’s hand is almost to the table now; Jester straightens up, lifting from her seat and leaning forward. _Too_ far forward—

Beau hisses and surges upward, using Jester’s unbalanced weight against her. They’re both on their feet now. Beau’s elbow digs deeper into the tabletop with every bend and flick. (Caleb doesn’t want to think about the splinters she’ll end up with.) Jester bites her lip and curls back. Fjord, losing his cool facade, gives a loud whoop when she starts tugging Beau toward her and down, down, down—

Yasha’s chair clatters as she stands. Caleb startles, almost dropping his wine (he recovers it, thankfully) at her shout of, “C’mon, Beau!”

Caleb glances around. Fjord has given up any pretense of indifference, yelping and cheering for Jester, fists in the air. Yasha keeps shouting encouragements to Beau, whose eyes light up at the sound. Molly ushers more and more people over to bet on one combatant or the other. Nott has stolen away to the bar, where she has accumulated a number of shots of various colors and is cheering Jester on. Eyeing the crowd gathered around Beau and Jester’s table, Caleb wonders if his friends can leave bars without causing at least one scene.

He resists the urge to hide under the table and pretend like he doesn’t know any of them. Instead, he presses his wine to his lips and drains the glass.

Perhaps inspired by her girlfriend’s cheers, Beau lunges, elbow scraping along the table and hand tightening on Jester’s. Jester’s eyes widen as Beau pushes and pushes, pressing her backward. Yasha’s yells rise in volume, and Beau grits her teeth and shoves forward. With a twist and an echoing _wham_ , Jester’s hand hits the table.

“ _Fuck yeah!”_ shouts Beau, clearly reveling in her ability to swear.

A beat, then applause and grumbles in simultaneous measure as money switches hands. Fjord sighs and pats Jester’s shoulder. Molly looks conflicted, to say the least, but he beams and claps nonetheless. He swipes some money out of a few palms and passes it to Beau, who’s already gathering quite the sum from other patrons.

She and Jester shake hands, then part with a smile and a nod. Sweat gleams across Beau’s forehead, sticking loose strands of hair to her skin. Beau stuffs her money-filled hands in her pockets and saunters across the bar, up to a still-standing Yasha.

She seems to not know what to do for a brief instant, then she lowers her head in a small bow and bats her lashes. “Care for a drink with me, Ms. Nydoorin?”

Yasha ducks her head and links her arm through Beau’s. “I would like that.”

Caleb watches them drift toward the bar, chatting under their breaths and leaning into each other. He wishes he hadn’t emptied his glass now, but he doesn’t want to get up and ask for a refill. So he sits there uncomfortably and stews in brief but violent self-pity. Nott comes trotting over to his lonesome table after a moment, face flushed with alcohol and mouth twisted into a sunny smile.

“Did you see them?” she asks, gesturing wildly over her shoulder.

Caleb shoots a disgruntled look to the ceiling. “How could I not?”

Nott frowns, considering. “Okay, yeah.” She swings up into the chair Yasha had been occupying a couple minutes ago and crosses her stubby legs. Caleb, who hasn’t sat normally in a chair since he was three (he has one leg tucked up, he realizes now, even if his foot isn’t planted on the chair itself), doesn’t comment. “It was _so cool_ , right? Beau is super strong. Even though she isn’t big like Yasha.”

“True. Jester is strong too, though, ja?” Nott’s face screws up in thought. Caleb takes the opportunity to continue his mournful staring into his empty glass. “Er, Schwesterherz, would you mind—”

She’s already swiped the glass from him and gotten up. “Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I’ll go ask Wessik to get you more ‘cause you’re too tipsy to get up.”

“That is not—you have been spending too much time with Jester,” accuses Caleb. Nott sticks her tongue out, and she’s halfway across the room in the blink of an eye.

Jester takes her place before long. _Speak of the devil,_ thinks Caleb. Jester’s bangs are pushed back, now fully-navy hair scooped up into a short ponytail tied with a silver bow, and her face glimmers—with sweat and not glitter for once. She loosely flexes her right fist; her left hand clings to an overflowing tankard of ale. Caleb squints at the drink, because—

“Your drink is blue.”

“Abashiri,” she says with a toothy grin that is also tinted blue. Her teeth are nothing compared to the bright sapphire beer, though. “They also have green and pink, but this one seemed the tastiest.”

“I will take your word for that.” He glances up at her slick forehead and clears his throat. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

Jester waves him off with a growing smirk. “Eh, it was fun! Also, just so you know, I bumped into Nott on the way over here, and I’m pretty sure she stole some of my rings.”

Caleb’s heart skips a beat. “She what.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” says Jester. “She didn’t take any of the _really_ valuable ones, and I don’t mind, really—”

“Will you excuse me for one moment?”

Barely processing the surprised look on Jester’s face, Caleb flashes her a pained smile and stands. He elbows through the other patrons—including some of his friends (Beau and Yasha sip from opposite straws in one beer)—to get to Nott, where she’s in the middle of haggling with Wessik the bartender.

“It’s not for me!” she’s in the middle of insisting. “It’s for my brother, I swear!”

Caleb coughs. Nott yelps and straightens up. Upon seeing (and recognizing) him, Wessik heads toward the wine cellar, though there’s clear confusion in the crinkle of his brow.

Nott folds her arms. “I was trying to get you more alcohol, but he said he was cutting me off for the night. Me, a paying customer! Can you believe—”

“Ja, ja, all right.” Caleb waves a hand and stares down at Nott, looking for any sign of recognition or regret in her wide-eyed gaze. He finds none. “Look, Mäuschen, did you steal anything off Jester’s person tonight? Say, less than five minutes ago?”

Nott freezes. She blinks, peering up at him—her gaze flickers in Jester’s direction. Caleb steps to the side, effectively blocking her view of the corner table. He doesn’t know how many people are looking at them now and, for once, he finds that he doesn’t care. He softens his pose a little and opens his mouth again—

But before he can say anything, Nott lowers her head. “I’m sorry! I just—I just got the Itch, you know, and I thought I could deal with it okay since I’ve been drinking, but I was reaching for her hand before I could stop myself—”

“Okay, all right, but Nott, we—we do not steal from our friends.” Caleb, not drunk enough to be comfortable with this situation or have even remotely an idea of what to do, pats the top of her head. “Well, we _shouldn’t_. Will you give Jester her things back?”

Wearing an expression that screams guilt, Nott lifts her head and digs around in her jean pocket. She comes up with a handful of shiny rings—Caleb finds himself counting them, mumbling the numbers under his breath. A total of five rings sit in Nott’s palm.

Nott curls her fist around them, mouth a squiggly little line. “I—I really didn’t mean to, Cay-Cay—”

“I know, Schwesterherz,” says Caleb, bringing his gaze to the ceiling once more. He reaches out to pat her head again. She shrinks away from the touch—at once, he lowers his hand to his side. He glances over his shoulder; Jester is watching them with a frown, her beer about half-drained, and Fjord has joined her at the table. “Let’s just go return them, hm?”

“Sure,” says Nott glumly. Her alcohol flush has lifted a bit, but she’s still pinker than usual, eyes reddening around the edges.

She lets Caleb take her by the shoulder, ring-filled hand dropping to her waist and head lowering. They walk back toward the table like that—Jester lifts her hand at their approach. She still appears rather cheerful about the whole affair. Fjord, on the other hand, folds his arms. Nott makes a little _eep!_ sound and tries to hide behind Caleb.

Caleb pushes her back forward. “Nope. None of that.”

When they’ve almost reached the table, though, Caleb and Nott (well, Caleb more so than Nott) are interrupted by an arm draping around Caleb’s shoulders. It’s a very familiar arm, he thinks absently as he looks down. He recognizes that tawny tone and those clear lines of ink—

Caleb’s entire neck and face go blotchy when he glances behind him and finds Molly there, blinking between him and Nott. “What’s going on here?” he asks,

Nott leaps out of Caleb’s grip and throws her arms up in defense. She keeps one fist curled around the rings, showing an impressive display of memory and protection. Before Caleb can come up with a reply—he’s sure the question was more directed at Nott, anyway—Molly steps away, arm dropping off Caleb’s shoulder. He tilts his head at Nott and smiles loosely.

Clenching her free hand into another fist, Nott shuffles her feet. “None of your business!” she shrieks.

“There are _other people in this bar_ ,” says Caleb, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Both ignore him. Molly crouches so he’s on eye level with Nott, who looks ready to punch him with the changing posture. Caleb doesn’t know why he hangs out with these people. Even Beau and Yasha have looked up from their shared drink, Yasha stone-faced and Beau intrigued (possibly because of the threat of violence to Molly).

“What’s in your hand, dear?” Molly tilts his head, bright hair spilling to the side and down along the collar of his shirt. Caleb does not think about how soft it looks. No, not that, just how much he wants to go home.

“Liquor,” blurts Nott. She cringes immediately.

“Some tiny liquor,” says Molly. He shifts, squatting in what’s either the most or least comfortable position possible, wrists touching his knees. “Belongs in the Guinness Book of World Records, for sure.”

“Oh, sod off,” says Nott.

Molly’s smile widens. “Whatever you’ve got wouldn’t happen to belong to any of us, would it? ‘Cause I don’t think any of us seem particularly grumpy.”

Nott frowns, forehead crinkling. “Grumpy?”

“Some people have too much,” says Molly airily, flapping his hands about. Caleb can’t see a point to this—he throws a hopeful glance in Jester’s direction, but she’s absorbed in a conversation with Fjord again and not looking at them. Verdammt. “They would be happier with less. They’re the grumpy ones, so you should steal from them.”

“ _Beau’s_ grumpy,” says Nott under her breath.

Molly strokes his chin in consideration. “True. You should totally steal from Beau. Though she _has_ been less grumpy since she and Yasha—”

“ _Okay,”_ says Caleb, and both look up with surprise, like they’d forgotten he was there. Nott’s fist twitches. “Mollymauk, I would like you to stop encouraging my sister to steal from our friends. Nott, would you _please_ just come talk to Jester with me?”

“Ah, I’ve been demoted to _Mollymauk_ again.” Molly sighs and clasps a hand over his heart. “I always knew this day would come, Mr. Widogast—”

Caleb is already walking away, taking Nott’s shoulder again. Molly gives a disdainful sigh and gets up with a disturbing series of cracks. He stretches, casual, back curving—Caleb turns his gaze forward. He’s sure Molly’s made his way back over to the bar by the time he and Nott finally reach the table, but he refuses to glance back and check.

Three unoccupied chairs sit before them. Caleb nudges Nott into one across from Fjord and Jester but stays standing himself. He clears his throat, ignoring the three sets of eyes—and more, since, y’know, there _are_ still other people here—looking from the bar.

“Nott has some things she would like to return to you,” he says. “Right, Nott?”

With a begrudging look, Nott opens her palm. Out spill the five rings, tumbling onto the table with a series of _clink_ s. Then silence. Caleb glances at Fjord’s face, then Jester’s—neither shows any strong emotion either way. Why can’t everyone wear their hearts on their sleeves? Socializing would be so much less anxiety-inducing.

Jester is the first to break the quiet—she leans forward and gathers up the rings with an exaggerated smile. “Thank you, Nott. These aren’t, like, _suuuper_ expensive—at least not as much as some of my other rings—but—”

“Oh, then can I—” Caleb kicks the back of Nott’s chair before she can finish that sentence. “Ow!”

Fjord raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “In the future, try not to go snooping through other folks’ things.”

“I don’t mind,” says Jester, waving her hand—Caleb can’t help but notice she’s already slid a couple rings back on. Nott leans marginally forward. Fjord shoots Jester a look. “What? I don’t, I have plenty other things—”

“That ain’t the point, Jes—”

“Look,” says Caleb, cutting off their banter. Nott whirls around to look at him. He ignores the look on her face and continues, “ _Schwesterherz_ , is it—er, is it all right if I—”

“I’m a kleptomaniac,” says Nott. “I—I’d been doing really good. I drink a lot, and that helps the—the itch?” Her words run together—the effect, Caleb suspects, of both earlier’s alcohol and the excitement of talking about this to people who aren’t him or a counselor. (Well, not a counselor of _hers_.) “I just—I love trinkets and shiny things, so when I see them, I _want_ them—and I’m really good at taking things! So I… do, sometimes.”

“I understand,” says Jester, eyes wide. All of Nott’s attention snaps to her, and Fjord raises his eyebrows. “You can pickpocket me any time—you know, if you _really_ get the urge to take something, just take something off me! As long as it isn’t my engagement ring.”

“Yeah, uh, don’t take that,” says Fjord. “Also, this policy doesn’t apply to me. I like you and all, but don’t touch my shit.”

Nott eyes them suspiciously, as if waiting for the _sike_. When it doesn’t come, and Jester just keeps smiling across the table, she relaxes, but the perplexed expression doesn’t fade. Caleb’s somewhere around there himself. “Okay, I—I’ll do that? I guess? I don’t know if it’ll help, but we can try.”

Jester nods, pleased. Caleb has mixed feelings about this entire conversation—this entire night, in fact. Those only become more tangled when Jester kicks her chair back and hops to her feet. Fjord jumps at the sudden movement.

“Karaoke time,” she says in a high, terrifying voice.

Caleb goes with his gut and hauls Nott up by the scruff of the neck. He drops her almost immediately after, because she squeals and kicks against his hold, and he can’t handle the weight, but it’s the thought that counts. Maybe. “That is our cue to leave, I think.”

“No, don’t be a baby!”

“I am not sober and Nott is very drunk, so we should get a cab before it gets too late.” Nott gives him a dirty look but plays it up anyway, tripping over herself in a sudden burst of clumsiness. “Also, I don’t want her to steal anything else.”

Jester puffs out her cheeks. “I told you I don’t mind—”

“Gute Nacht, Jester.”

+

The last Tuesday of February, Caleb bursts into the counselor’s office as something of a last resort. He keeps his eyes shut out of some half-witted superstition, praying under his breath that Jester is inside for once—

And the universe must like him today. He opens his eyes to find her sitting at her desk, perusing a picture book he’s pretty sure had been in his library yesterday afternoon. Clearing his throat, Caleb decides not to mention that. Or that he’d flung open the door to the health room and called out for her as well, before realizing neither she nor Shakäste was inside.

“Jester,” he says instead, using the most desperate tone he ever has. He pauses, unable to believe he’s going to say this. “I—I need your help.”

Jester’s smile widens. “Come in, come in!”

He suspects she’s going to add _said the spider to the fly_ and is at the ready to correct the misquote. He’s disappointed when she keeps smiling in expectation. A quick glance around—he eyes the beanbag chair and blue plastic chair before her desk. Tension rising in his shoulders, he closes the door and takes the latter chair. His proximity to the ground is concerning, but at least he isn’t sinking into the carpet.

“What ever do you need, Caleb?” says Jester silkily.

“Do not use your Fjord voice on me. It is weird for more than one reason.”

Wearing her standard smirk, Jester nods. Caleb takes the opportunity to look closer at the book on her desk. It is indeed almost surely stolen from his library. Jester either doesn’t see him looking or doesn’t care (either is viable); she links her fingers together and leans forward to say, “What do you need my help with?”

Caleb’s gaze drops to his feet. Heat rises to his cheeks as he opens his mouth. He feels stuck in place now, like time has stopped for an instant long enough for him to question everything leading up to this moment.

“Caaaaaleb….”

“I—I, uh. I need your help with—” Various words pop into his head, each one embarrassing and not fitting right in his mind (let alone his mouth). “Courtship,” he settles on, syllables rushing together.

Jester stares at him for several seconds, which feel like hours as Caleb sweats beneath her flat purplish eyes. (Regret doesn’t even begin to explain his current emotions.) Then she bursts out in giggles. “Are you going to _woo_ someone, Mr. Widogast?” she asks with delight.

“I think—” Blanching, Caleb picks at the knee of his pants. “I think that is the goal, ja.”

His gaze flickers between the absolute glee in Jester’s round face and the bright, chevron-patterned carpet while he questions his decision. Why not question all of his decisions throughout his entire life? He’s cut short from spiraling by Jester leaning further forward, face _very_ close to Caleb’s in a matter of seconds, and he scoots back on reflex. The chair makes a grating sound across the ground.

Jester beams. “Can I guess who you are going to woo?”

Caleb’s inner librarian kicks in. It’s a defense mechanism. “I do not know, Jester, _can_ you?”

“Okay,” says Jester, pulling an exaggerated pout. It doesn’t last for long, overwritten by her dazzling smile again. She presses a finger to her chin, eyebrows furrowing. “Hmm… definitely not Beau or Yasha. Could be Fjord, but you wouldn’t want to come to me.” She snickers, then lowers her voice conspiratorially to add, “Though I wouldn’t blame you. I mean, he’s—”

“You can stop there. _Please_ stop there, in fact,” says Caleb. Jester giggles and slides back into her seat, fingers tucking beneath her jaw. “Are you done guessing? Do I need to tell you?”

“Nope—” she pops the _p_ “—but thank you for offering me a cheat code! How generous.” Flashing her sharp teeth, Jester drums a nail against her chin. “I already knew, anyway.”

Caleb had figured, but it still makes him scrunch his nose and shrink in his seat. He understands why Nott does this now.

“Don’t worry,” says Jester, mild. “I’m pretty sure most people are at least a little in love with Molly. He’s just that kind of person. Like me.”

That startles a laugh out of Caleb, and he immediately covers his mouth with his palm. Jester giggles. He drops it after a second so he can say, “Ja, all right, well. If you’re not going to offer me advice, I might as well—”

He doesn’t get to his feet (yet), but Jester’s arm shoots out from across the desk to grab his shoulder. “Don’t! Please, I want to help! I’m an excellent matchmaker!”

Caleb thinks about Beau and Yasha and Jester’s “plan” to get them to talk. He sighs. “I am sure, yes,” he says, and she beams.

“Molly likes fancy things,” says Jester, forehead crinkling with thought. “But he also likes you, like, a _lot_.” She makes a little gesture with her hands to signify _a lot_ , and Caleb tries (read: fails) not to go bright red. “So he’d probably be happy with any form of wooing.”

“That did not help at all. Thanks.”

Jester lifts a stress ball threateningly. “Shh! I’m brainstorming. You know, like Freud’s whole free association thing—he was a total bag of dicks, but it helps—wait, I know!” She sits up straight, still squeezing the stress ball, and Caleb straightens with her. “You could give him something for White Day, like in an anime or something. Oh, that would be so romantic and—”

“Ja, er, Jester? We live in the United States,” deadpans Caleb, cutting her off. “I don’t know a single person who celebrates White Day.”

“Do it anyways,” says Jester, scowling and jabbing the stress ball in his direction again. He’s more terrified than he thinks he ought to be. “Like, you wanted to get him something for Valentine’s Day, but you didn’t have enough money, so you’re putting a few months’ salaries into this—”

“Jester.”

“Ooh, you could get him jewelry instead of chocolates to really sell it. One of my mom’s suitors did that for her once—he’d read up on Japanese traditions to impress her. He was also _really_ hung up on the fact that sex workers don’t actually fall in love with their clients that often, though, so—”

“Jester.”

“Chocolates would be nice too, though, since he got you some—maybe a big display? He’d like that. Oh, speaking of displays, you could get flowers, like Yasha did for Beau—though not as public, obviously—”

“ _Jester,”_ says Caleb for a final time, voice raising to cut off the prattle.

She shuts her jaw with a click. They sit in silence for a few beats—Jester continues bouncing in her seat, fingers twining together and then slipping apart again, while Caleb’s heart descends from the part of his throat it’s jumped to.

“Okay, don’t do all that,” she says, after a long moment. “But you should do _something_. I can brainstorm more if you want?”

“No thank you. I, uh—” Caleb’s eyes bore a hole in the floor. “I would like to. Um.” He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs, growing resigned to the regret running all through him now. “All right, fuck it. We are going to do this—this White Day thing. Can you, eh—would you help me?”

When he gets no response other than the sound of someone shifting on a polyester seat, he opens his eyes and looks up. Jester’s eyes have lit up. Again, Caleb—starting into fight-or-flight mode—questions several decisions he’s made in the past half-hour when he sees the devious smile on Jester’s face. She scoots forward, leans across her desk, and holds out a hand.

Caleb stares down. Is he supposed to shake it? Jester continues staring at him, smiling from ear to ear, and Caleb decides to run on instinct.

Feeling like he’s signing a deal with the devil, he reaches out and takes Jester’s cold hand. He drops it a brief heft later, glad Jester probably legally has to keep her hands clean. (Doesn’t mean he won’t be bent over the bathroom sink this afternoon. It’s still the thought that counts.)

“Operation: White Day is a go,” says Jester, teeth glinting in the busted lighting of the counselor’s office. Her smile tips sideways, loaded with several promises that she may or may not keep.

Caleb wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! see you next week--after the next chapter goes up, friday updates should resume for part 3! exciting! also, since like, we're in the last third of this dang thing, i just want to thank all of you for sticking with me thus far & hope you'll continue to do so, there's some fun stuff coming 8)
> 
> translations:  
> \+ jiǔyǎng: it's an honor to meet you, I've long looked forward to meeting you (a formal greeting generally used when meeting someone for the first time)  
> \+ machi: (in this context) slang similar to bro/dude, but used for family-like friends
> 
> [abashiri blue beer](http://www.grubstreet.com/2014/10/abashiri-blue-beer.html) is a real thing, by the way, and my first thought upon learning about it was "jester and beau would drink this"
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	11. part iii, chapter i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb and Jester plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! hi!!!! welcome to part 3!!!! are you excited? i'm excited!! that's partially because i know everything that happens though LMAO...... anyway enjoy!

“ _Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better.”_

— _Twelfth Night_ , William Shakespeare.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It may well be a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a decent brain does not allow himself to be dragged all across his city’s historic downtown. It is _also_ true that there is no stopping Jester Lavorre when she’s determined about something, so Caleb ignores the aforementioned statement.

They’ve been wandering the Pentamarket for at least two hours now. Though the Valentine’s decorations had been taken down as March faded in, there’s still the distinct air of romance around them—most likely because of the free samples of cologne and perfume a salesperson had spritzed on them thirty minutes ago. (Jester’s suggestion, of course, as they’d passed a Sephora knockoff.) Caleb is on his way to accepting that he’ll never get rid of the scents of Calvin Klein’s Obsessed or Dior’s Hypnotic Poison.

Or, he thinks, the feeling of dread that runs through him every time they pass a jewelry store. Arm linked through his, Jester has given a great number of shopkeepers the impression they’re a couple. She also makes sure to skip toward a ring case in every single shop that has one. As if the price tags that made Caleb want to faint weren’t enough, wanting to die of embarrassment had to be added to the experience.

“Jester, we have not taken a break in an hour,” says Caleb, tensing his arm where she’s still gripping it. “Please. I am going to die if we go into another shop without sitting first.”

Jester pulls a face. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she says, but she does drag them toward the nearest bench, poised between a boutique and a thrift store.

Dim fairy lights dangle above them, stretching from tree to tree and lamppost to lamppost. Caleb loosens his jacket and undoes his scarf. He’s sure the red in his face isn’t going away any time soon (or at least as long as he’s with Jester), but he can at least ease the warmth. This time of day on a Sunday, the winding streets aren’t too full—still, they’ve talked to enough strangers to make him sweat.

“So,” says Jester, “I was asking Yasha what sort of things Molly liked since, you know, she knows him the best—”

“Ja, you told me this in the car.” Caleb hadn’t been paying much attention, of course, since she’d been pushing the speed limit and cackling between breaths, but he’d gotten the gist. “Before we got ticketed for speeding.”

She shoves him, light but still with enough force to make him wobble. “Hey, we didn’t get a ticket! We just got honked at a ton.”

Caleb winces. “I know why Fjord drives to school more than you do now.”

“His loss.” Jester folds her arms and makes a  _hmph_ noise. “He’d look much cooler in my Mustang than his super crappy minivan, anyway.”

“Some of us like our crappy cars,” says Caleb, feeling targeted. “And also I am pretty sure driving isn’t supposed to be about how cool you look. You are a licensed health professional, you should know this.”

Ignoring him, Jester stands and tweaks her ruffled skirt. She dusts it off (though there isn’t a single speck of dirt), then turns back to him. “Are you ready to get up now?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!” Jester hauls him to his feet without much strain, looking rather proud of herself. Caleb takes a moment to regain his balance, but again they set off, Jester’s right arm through Caleb’s and her ring visible to any passersby.

He sighs. This is his life now, he supposes.

After a couple moments of aimless strolling, they happen upon a bakery. As soon as Caleb points it out, Jester gasps and tugs him toward it. He sighs and picks up his own pace before she can pull his arm out of its socket. Inside, she makes a beeline for a shining pastry display. Caleb shoots the cashier an apologetic look over the top of her head. (At least she isn’t holding onto him anymore.)

“Full disclosure,” says Jester, pressing her palms against the glass, “this is all for me. You can see if they have chocolates for Molly, though—”

Caleb doesn’t move an inch. A glance around the store shows that it’s sizable, with customers clustered around most of the display cases. The decor is kitschy yet refined; it seems to aim toward several demographics. Despite the store’s size and number of patrons, the cashier is the only person on duty, and—

Jester smacks the glass case, startling Caleb out of his observations. He turns to see her pressing her face against it in a way that probably violates all kinds of health codes. Her breath fogs the glass as she gasps in delight.

The cashier straightens up. “Uh, ma’am—”

“Caleb, they’ve got _bear claws_ ,” says Jester. She unsticks her face from the display case, much to the cashier’s obvious relief, and tucks her clasped hands under her chin. “Oh Caleb, can I get some—can I—”

Caleb flushes under the sudden attention of the other customers and, cringing, holds out a palm. “You—you are an adult with money of your own, Jester.”

Jester giggles and pats his arm. “Just teasing. You look ready to pass out,” she says, and Caleb doesn’t think that’s inaccurate. She turns back to the cashier to say, holding up the respective number of fingers with each item, “Can I have two bear claws, one maple bar, and that row of donuts there, please? Oh, and two cinnamon rolls!”

Her giddy smile paired with the amount of food she’s buying seems to throw the cashier off, but he smiles back anyway. “Of course, ma’am.”

After she’s paid and has her pastries arranged into a box with the bakery’s logo on it, Jester links her arm through Caleb’s again. He’s pretty sure everyone in the store—and everyone just outside, too—is looking at them as they leave.

Jester, oblivious or uncaring, offers Caleb the box. All the while, she chatters on about how “I’m so glad they had these! My mom used to make the _best_ bear claws, with, like, so much cinnamon, so I hope these are as good.”

Caleb declines to try any of the sweet treats, but his willpower declines after five minutes. “I will have a donut, actually, pl—” Smirking innocently, Jester stuffs one into his mouth before he’s done talking. It’s good enough that he doesn’t argue.

They weave their way back through the crowd, continuing their window shopping. Jester points out a florist as an option—“He has flower tattoos,” she says, “so he must like flowers, right?” Caleb hums idly; he’s more focused on the secondhand bookshop near the end of the row. He takes a few subconscious steps toward it, but before he can get too close, Jester tightens her grip on his arm and yanks him back along the cobblestone path. He can’t say he blames her. The least amount of time he’s spent in a bookshop is a good two hours, and that had been when he was readjusting to being in public.

As it turns out, the bear claws are as good as Jester’s mother’s—after gorging herself on both in under five minutes total, she tells him so. Then, in the middle of raving about cinnamon, she catches sight of something, gasps, and hauls him toward _another_ jewelry store. He tilts his head back with a feeble groan. He’s not surprised when Jester ignores him in favor of marching inside—he manages to shake her arm off his so he can remain near the exit.

Caleb would be perfectly content to stand here for the next thirty minutes while Jester browses. Even if that means ignoring the shopkeeper’s dollar-sign eyes. Of course, he isn’t so lucky—he finds himself glancing around the clean store, and his gaze catches on an earring display several feet away within seconds.

He’s walking over before he can think better of it. He throws a furtive glance over his shoulder—Jester is busy talking to another customer by the counter, where she’s set down her pastry box. With a low huff, Caleb turns back to the rotating case.

The earring sets are all beautiful, of course, bright and iridescent and studded with various gemstones, but none catch his interest in more than an _oh, how pretty and out of my price range_ way. Caleb turns the case to the next side. There, his eyes jump to a set of hoops—textured and, as the label proclaims, white gold. He picks them up on instinct. And, well, they’re in his hand now, so there they stay. Lip worried between his teeth, he starts to turn the case again—

“Find something?”

Caleb starts upright and feels his hand slip. As soon as that sets in, he tightens his grip on the earrings, not wanting to think about how much he’d have to pay if they broke. Behind him, Jester giggles.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding it. She glances at the hoops and nods thoughtfully. “Those are really nice. Are you going to get anything else?”

“I don’t know. I am not sure how much these cost,” admits Caleb, though he doesn’t add that he’s a little scared to check. He finishes turning the display, and his gaze falls to another set of earrings. These are a dangling pair, sleek gold with ruby studs. One has a sun on the end of a short chain; the other, a moon. They’re detailed and flashy and _very_ Molly. “…Or those.”

Jester peers up at him. “I can lend you some money, you know—”

Caleb grits his teeth but doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches out to pick up the second set of earrings. When he flips them over and reads the sticker on the back, he’s almost thrown into cardiac arrest. He follows suit with the first set—they cost less, but still a fair amount.

His fingers tighten around each set of earrings. He weighs his options, a quick pros-and-cons list writing itself in the back of his mind, and then says, “I will pay you back, I promise.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she says breezily. “I’ve got plenty of money to spare.”

A number of feelings and impulses run through Caleb, one of which is the urge to leave the unnecessary luxuries behind (who said love had to be expressed with material things, anyway?) and walk out. He holds himself still as he processes this, staring at his dusty, worn shoes. They contrast greatly with the polished tile floors. He’s pretty sure he would be kicked out of this establishment if not for Jester or his clear interest in expensive earrings.

“All right,” he says, weighing each word with the utmost caution. “But I—I still want to do something for you in return eventually. I know you are….” He pauses and thinks about his and Molly’s conversation last month. “I know you are doing this as a favor for a friend, but I would still like to repay you eventually. Think of it as another favor between friends.”

Jester pats his arm. “Sure, sure,” she says, then waves the cashier over.

The number of zeroes in their total—Jester throws in a stunning pink sapphire necklace for herself—are still dizzying, and the cashier looks suspiciously at Caleb in his ragged clothes. Nevertheless, they somehow walk out without making too big a scene. Jester doesn’t take his arm again, just shoves the bag and her pastry box into his arms so she can put her new necklace on. Caleb doesn’t comment on how she’s had bear claw crumbs around her mouth the whole time. It’d be some form of hypocrisy, he’s sure.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve actually called me your friend,” says Jester, outside.

Were he not holding a gift bag, Caleb would bury his head in his hands and avoid any further questioning. He is, however, so he offers an uncomfortable smile and stares straight forward. Jester takes the hint and says nothing more.

He stops dead at the parking lot entrance. “You know what, I am going to call Nott to come and pick me up. Or, actually, I may walk home, I—”

“Friends put up with their friends’ bad driving, Caleb. Get in the fucking car.”

+

Four days later, Caleb wakes to fevered knocking. He groans and flips over to bury his head in his pillow in a weak attempt to drone the inane sound out.

It doesn’t work. His visitor continues knocking as loud as humanly possible—Caleb considers how remorseful for his neighbors he’s been this year. He grits his teeth; it doesn’t seem as if whoever is knocking is going to go away soon. Bleary-eyed, he peels himself out of bed, throws a robe over his pajamas, and pads out to the living room. Frumpkin sits in the hallway, in his usual routine of staring at random walls in the middle of the night. Caleb nudges him out of the way and throws open the door with a snap of, _“Why.”_

Jester, hair tousled and eyes wide but shadowed, is of course standing on his porch. Who else?

“Jester, it is—” He doesn’t know what time it is. “Too fucking early. And a school night.”

“It’s three,” says Jester brightly. Caleb rubs his eyes, torn between slamming the door in her face and having a breakdown. “Also, you’ll probably be fine. If you have coffee.” She flashes him a smile much too shiny for three in the morning.

Frumpkin doesn’t seem quite as unsettled by her presence, though—he leaps to his feet and trots over, tail flicking curiously. Jester squeals at a pitch Caleb doesn’t think he should be able to hear. She crouches to pet him. If possible, her already big eyes have grown wider at seeing Frumpkin up close and in his natural habitat.

“I doubt Fjord will like this.”

“I’m a nurse. We own lots and lots of antihistamines. He’ll get over it.” Jester pinches Frumpkin’s cheeks. When Frumpkin purrs and arches into the touch, Caleb lifts his now irritated gaze to the ceiling. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good kitty? It’s you, Lumpy, you’re the best kitty!”

Caleb wonders what he’s done to deserve this. Being friends with Jester in the first place might have sealed his fate. “That is not his name. Jester, did you—did you come here for a reason?”

Instead of answering, Jester sweeps Frumpkin into her arms and rocks him against her chest, complimenting him under her breath. Caleb doesn’t know if she’s ignoring his question or if she’d just been too busy establishing a bond with Frumpkin to hear it. He rubs his eyes. He’d be perfectly willing to fall back asleep right here in the hallway—standing, even. Swallowing a yawn, he snaps his fingers in Jester’s field of vision.

She shakes herself, but it still doesn’t seem like she’s close to releasing Frumpkin. (To her credit, he’s relaxed and purring.) “Of course I had a reason! You think I would show up at three for no reason?”

“Well,” says Caleb.

Jester sticks her tongue out. The door, Caleb notices, is still wide open behind her, and he doesn’t want to be standing here in a bathrobe and sleepwear, so he sighs and waves her in. It’s the beginning of March—it isn’t exactly boiling outside. And even at the witching hour, he has neighbors. With a triumphant grin, Jester prances in, tightening her grip on Frumpkin.

Caleb gives her back a flat look as he shuts the door. From down the hall, he hears a creak and looks up, thinking illogically for a moment that he has a ghost now. He shakes his head when he sees Nott, hair sticking up with sleep, standing in the hall instead.

“Go—” he restrains himself from throwing in _the fuck_ “—back to sleep, Mäuschen.”

Perhaps because of the fact that he looks an inch from sleep and/or death, or the suppressed yawn still underlying his voice, or simple curiosity, Nott ignores him. “Did I hear Jester?”

Caleb doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s saved from it by Jester’s cheerful, “Nott!” His eyes narrow, and he steps between Jester and Nott, distrusting of Jester’s bright smile.

“Er. Hello?” says Nott.

“Hello!” says Jester, shifting Frumpkin so she can wave. Then she waves using _his_ paw, which is cute but deepens Caleb’s urge to maim and kill.

Nott yawns and rubs her eyes. “Why are you here? What time is it? Are you—” She drops her gaze to Frumpkin, and in an instant goes from sleepy and bemused to wide-eyed and suspicious. “Are you trying to steal Frumpkin? Are you trying to turn him against us so you can hurt Caleb?”

Caleb shuts his eyes. He wonders, somewhere, if there’s a prayer along the lines of _please do something to get an unwanted visitor out of my house_. Then he wonders if he can fall asleep right here and now, standing up and all. Probably not, given his lack of legs that can lock, but he could _try_ , dammit. No one ever learned anything without rigorous and inadvisable experimentation.

“I’m here to help out with something, silly,” says Jester. “Also, Caleb, your hair looks really bad. Do you need a comb? I have one right h—”

“I literally woke up five minutes ago,” snaps Caleb, jerking his head up and blinking. He processes the rest of her suggestion and, with a bitter sigh, lowers his head. “Why do you have a comb on you? No, you know what, I do not want to know. I want to know something else—why you’re _here_. Now. At three in the morning.”

Jester bats her eyelashes. It doesn’t even remotely work on Caleb. “Oh, that. I thought of something you could do for Molly.”

“Molly?” asks Nott. “What are you two doing for Molly?”

Caleb throws her a _we’ll talk about it later_ look and turns his weary gaze on Jester. “And you couldn’t have texted it to me?”

“…Ah.” Jester’s shoulders slump. “I guess I could have done that, sure, but—but I just woke up from this dream—that’s what gave me the idea—and I didn’t have time to think. And, anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to see Lumpy then!”

“His name’s Frumpkin,” mumbles Nott.

Wordlessly, Caleb points to her. She smirks but doesn’t lose the suspicious furrow in her expression. Jester ignores both of them and continues cooing to Frumpkin, whose purrs are growing in volume by the second. She’s holding Frumpkin like a baby—stomach up, paws curled, adoring face tilted toward hers. His tail swishes against her arm.

“What was your idea,” says Caleb after another few uncomfortable beats, unable to handle the stiffness of the room.

Jester glances up, almost like she’d forgotten they were in the middle of a conversation she’d initiated. (Very possible.) “Oh! See, we talked about giving chocolates, and then I had a dream about donuts—”

“Donuts?” says Nott, frowning.

“Don’t ask for details,” warns Caleb.

“—and I got to thinking when I woke up,” says Jester. “What if you gave him pastries instead? Homemade ones. It’d give it a, I dunno, special touch.” Her eyes gleam in the low lighting. The effect of the absolute conviction in her voice is ruined somewhat by the fact that she’s still gently rocking Frumpkin in her arms. And, oh yeah, the fact that—

“I do not cook often,” says Caleb, flat. “And I bake even less. Molly knows this.”

Jester purses her lips. “Why not?”

And Caleb freezes, brief visions of fire and panic flitting through his brain. Well aware Nott is staring at him, he blurts, “Because I—” and then stops. This isn’t the time. “Nein, okay, I just do not. I am not telling you about my ‘tragic backstory’ at ass o’clock on a school night. Day. Morning. Whatever the fuck.”

“Okiedokie,” says Jester, shrugging. Huh. “So what do you think about the pastries?”

“I just said—”

“I know, I know, but—” She pauses to make kissy noises at Frumpkin, who curls his head toward her collarbone. Caleb’s eyes flicker toward the ceiling and, subsequently, the back of his head. Jester clears her throat. “You could just say I helped you make them. And I will, by the way, so it won’t even be a lie!”

Her eyes light up again—she’s almost bouncing on her heels. Caleb is planning on letting her down easy, he _really_ is. But he’s tired, it isn’t an awful idea, she’s so _happy_ about it, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “All right, sure, we—we can make Molly pastries for White Day.”

Nott’s eyes widen. Even Jester looks rather taken aback, pausing in her perpetual petting of Frumpkin. Their expressions are nothing compared to the surprise rattling around in Caleb’s own mind, though.

“One condition,” he adds, and Jester nods. “We do this at your house. Two conditions, actually—and we do not do it today.”

“Okay!” Jester’s grip on Frumpkin tightens in her excitement—as if waking from a bad dream, he squeaks and digs his claws into her arm. With a guilty gasp, she loosens her arms, but Frumpkin is already glaring and wriggling. “Oh no—Lumpy, I’m so sorry, I will be nicer—don’t try to jump down please—”

“He’s going to jump down,” says Nott.

He does. Jester sticks her bottom lip out as he launches himself from her arms, then trots away with his head high and frizzy tail higher. She recovers after mere seconds, clapping her hands together and straightening up so quick Caleb almost gets sympathy whiplash.

“So,” she says, nostrils flaring, “what do you want to make? Something chocolatey, obviously… hm, they aren’t technically pastries, but cookies are pretty fun! And traditional—”

Caleb wants to pass out now, but he fights off another yawn and steels himself. The crust around his eyes has started to crumble away, and he has the sneaking suspicion it’ll be nigh impossible to fall back asleep if he lets Jester stay any longer. “Jester,” he says slowly, “it is still three in the morning and still a school day, so I would like to talk about this later. We can—” he doesn’t bother biting back the yawn that cuts in this time “—we can decide on details this afternoon, okay?”

“Of course!” Jester blinks at him, seeming pleased but regretful. What she doesn’t seem is tired. At all. “I really am sorry for waking you two up—”

“Water under the bridge or whatever,” says Caleb. “Will you apologize for trying to steal and then upsetting my cat?”

She considers for a moment. “Nope.”

Caleb rubs his forehead. “Goodbye, Jester.”

“Bye,” she says cheerfully, and she skips to the door. She’s out without another word, though Nott mutters a soft _g’night_ that’s lost to the wind and Caleb hears her Mustang starting up a moment later.

He lets loose a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “We will also talk later,” he tells Nott, who nods.

And on that note, he shoves his hands in his robe pockets and slinks back into his room. He’d always brushed falling asleep as soon as one’s head hit the pillow as an unlikely cliche, but that is, indeed, what happens when he face-first falls into bed.

+

Within the week, Caleb and Jester have—through vigorous brainstorming sessions (though Caleb declines Jester’s conspiracy board suggestion)—put together enough of a plan that Caleb feels, well, not entirely pessimistic toward his own chances. The plan includes hashed out details of the pastry idea, and so on Sunday afternoon, Caleb heads over to Fjord and Jester’s house. Nott near begs to come along, and so she joins him.

When they arrive, Jester already has the materials and a recipe (provided by one of Fjord’s moms, she tells them) for chocolate chip cookies sprawled out in the kitchen. Nott looks around in her generic awe toward Fjord and Jester’s picket fence home. Almost at once, she clambers up onto a countertop and promises she’ll help clean it when she gets down. Caleb doesn’t ask when that will be.

“Cookies technically mean you just want to be friends with the recipient,” says Jester as she shakes out a bag of chocolate chips, “but! It isn’t like he’ll know the meaning, _and_ you’re giving him other stuff that means good things too. Maybe you can revolutionize White Day!”

“Why’s Caleb revolutionizing a holiday that ain’t even celebrated in North America?” asks Fjord, appearing in the doorway, at the same time Nott says, “This is so complicated.”

Caleb responds to neither comment, focusing his attention on the marble countertop. He isn’t confident about his ability to bake without dissociating—but Jester had said she’d handle most of the work, and despite his better judgment, he does trust her. Even if he’s also terrified of her.

Jester tosses the chocolate chips, where they sag with a crinkling sound, back to the counter at Fjord’s appearance. “Fjord! Hi! Want to help us make cookies for Molly?”

“Did you tell him about the plan?” says Nott, feet knocking together.

Fjord’s startled eyes flicker between her and Jester. “I reckon I’d get in the way, and I don’t know about any plan. Nott, why’re you on the counter I polished yesterday?”

“She likes to be tall,” says Jester. Caleb chokes off a pained laugh. Nott flashes a bright, toothy grin, looking quite piranha-like.

“Right,” says Fjord. He shakes himself and pats Jester’s shoulder—she grins up at him, dreamy as usual. Caleb can’t wait for their wedding for more than one reason. “What’s this plan about? Oh—did you say the cookies are for Molly?” His wide-eyed gaze snaps onto Caleb.

Caleb shuffles his feet, uncomfortably pinned by that look. Jester beams and launches into a spiel about how “Molly and Caleb are _so_ in love and Caleb wants to do something about it, so we’ve been getting stuff together for him to give to Molly on White Day—”

“Again, a holiday absolutely nobody ‘round here celebrates.”

“I said that too,” mutters Caleb.

Jester ignores them both. “And it’s going to be so romantic and so sweet and they’re going to finally realize they’ve had their heads up their asses for, like, the past two years.”

“That is not—” Caleb bites his lip, not wanting to bother arguing with Jester. Nott giggles.

Fjord gives a low whistle, then flashes Caleb a grin as sparkly and sharp-toothed as Jester’s. “Not to sound like Jes, but fuckin’ finally. I’m proud of you, you know?”

Caleb doesn’t know how to deal with any of the conversations happening right now. “Can we—can we just start baking already,” he says, staring at the floor tiles and ignoring his very, very warm face. He’s filled with the sudden urge to tug at Jester’s sleeve to make her turn back to him, like she’s his mother, and—

Ah. He’s even more uncomfortable with that train of thought. He blinks it away and stares imploringly across the room at Jester.

She takes the hint, turning her grin on him. “You know how to stir, right?”

“Yes, Jester, I know how to _stir_ ,” he deadpans.

Jester clicks her tongue. “Just making sure!” she says, and then she shoves a bowl and spatula into his hands. In the bowl sits a melted slab of butter, lying atop poured brown and white sugar. “Mix it until it’s smooth. I’m gonna preheat the oven real quick.”

And with that, she skips away, humming under her breath. Caleb furrows his brow and does as Jester asks. This sort of menial task is fine, so long as he doesn’t lose his focus from the oven beeping. From the doorway, Fjord clears his throat and says, “Y’all have fun,” then heads down the hall.

The counter under Nott creaks as she shifts her weight. “Is there anything I can do?”

Jester, busying herself with the oven, doesn’t reply, and Nott huffs. Caleb listens to Jester’s humming and Nott swinging her feet against the ground-level cabinets while he stirs. The butter and sugar slosh together—he only wonders if he should’ve done this over the sink when little flecks splash across his forearms. His sleeves are rolled up anyway, he thinks, so it should be fine.

By the time Jester turns back around, the bowl’s contents are smooth. “Good job!” she says, flashing a thumbs-up. Caleb tries not to preen. “Oh, Nott, if you still want something to do, you can beat the eggs in.”

Eyes wide, Nott hops down from the counter with a deceptive _thud_ and dashes over. With Jester’s encouragement, she cracks two eggs open and pours their yolks into the bowl. Caleb keeps stirring. It’s an oddly comfortable moment; the three of them hovering in Fjord and Jester’s sunny kitchen, working together even without speaking.

A certain harmony follows. Caleb pauses when the two need to add new ingredients to the bowl—vanilla from Jester; baking soda, warm water, and salt from Nott; flour from Jester; and, finally, chocolate chips from both. He stirs between each pour, dissolving the mix piece by piece. And then they’re all peering into a bowl filled with smooth, tan batter and chocolate chips.

Jester takes the bowl to plop spoonfuls onto a tray resting by the oven. When she’s done with that, there’s a batch of thirty cookies ready to bake. She sets the bowl—and the spatula inside—aside before she slides the tray into the oven.

Nott gravitates toward the counter. “Can I lick the spoon?” she asks Caleb, practically vibrating.

“Go for it,” says Caleb, “if you want salmonella.”

She seems to weigh the pros and cons in her head, brows scrunching in concentration. Despite Caleb’s comment, she shrugs and scoops the spoon up. He winces and looks away so he doesn’t have to watch her lick the batter off. He still _hears_ her doing it, but it’s better without a visual.

Jester slams the oven door shut. “Wash your hands,” she tells them as she turns, beaming. “And your mouth, please, Nott.”

Fifteen minutes (and several thorough hand washings) later, Jester slips her hot pink mitts on and pulls the steaming cookies out of the oven. They’re a warm golden brown and soft and perfect. Nott’s eyes widen. Caleb snaps his arm out and cuts her off before she can walk toward them.

“Not for you, Schwesterherz.”

Jester giggles at Nott’s responding pout—she definitely taught her that. Once the cookies cool off, Caleb and Jester scoop them into a gift bag she’s prepared, a shade of purple that matches Molly’s trademark hair color and tied with a gold ribbon. Fjord pops in to check out the sweet smell drifting through the house—he claps Caleb’s shoulder and wishes him luck before he wanders off again. Caleb is pretty sure he thanks Jester for her help at least twenty times on the way out.

Jester, stopping him in the middle of another weary _thank you_ , lays a hand on Caleb’s arm and peers up at him. “I hope Molly likes them.”

It’s soft and sincere—that much, he can tell, and he swallows. “You and me both.”

The cookies have cooled down by now, but as he and Nott walk back to his car, they still seem to burn a hole into his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Love Jester. also i added 4 new abba songs to the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/gealbhan/playlist/6vNJwZ2p7CwWQicKExt1Cf?si=FTHNxmRGTuaLB79KJaqgIQ) today and that is honestly how it is sometimes
> 
> thank you so much for reading, see you on friday :3!! next chapter might be the shortest one but it's... good imo so i hope that makes up for it? and as always, comments & kudos are greatly appreciated <3
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	12. part iii, chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Operation: White Day commences, subsequently experiences some speedbumps, and things change (but they also don't).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE..... THE MOMENT Y'ALL'VE BEEN WAITING FOR......... dear god i can't believe it took us ~70k to hit this point (but also, y'know, i totally can). on another note, you may have noticed the revamped summary! i just... didn't like it so i fixed it up
> 
> tw for some non-graphic mentions of intrusive thoughts in the first 3-4 paragraphs + implications of past self-harm in the second scene. anyway, enjoy!

On March 14th, Caleb wakes up and at once wants to go back to sleep when he remembers the date. But he’s come this far, after all (even if the last two days had been hell on his anxiety). He removes his face from the pillow he’s shoved it into and rolls over.

Regardless of how many times he has to wash his hands after the morning prayer to metaphorically send the thoughts buzzing around in his head down the drain, he decides, he can’t postpone this like he has most things in his life. Worst case scenario, point blank? He gets rejected. Rough, but not the end of the world. His brain wants to twist that into a crueler scene; he shuts his eyes and projects the image and sound of static all across the black space of his mind.

And he _knows_ nothing as awful as the things he’s thinking of will happen. Somewhere, he can recognize that it is more likely than not Jester and Fjord and Nott are right about his feelings being returned. Another portion of his mind is just violently opposed to that idea.

He washes his hands one more time.

For most of the morning, Kiri hangs out in the library, and her chattering fills the mind-weakening silence. Nott skips out on shelving duty (which is fine, Caleb prefers doing it himself) to read a book about crows and ravens to her. Kiri repeats the fun facts section to Caleb. He smiles at the appropriate spots, he thinks, as he listens to the information but not completely processes it. She mimics a crow’s caw, which makes Nott squeal in the corner and Caleb’s smile widen, and then trots upstairs giggling.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a casual rap on the door frame. Caleb is both surprised and not surprised at all when he looks up to see Beau standing in the doorway, her arms folded and her face screwed up in an unreadable expression.

“‘Sup,” she says. “Wanna get lunch?”

Caleb blinks—once, twice—and waits out her _haha just kidding_. It doesn’t come, and so he glances in Nott’s direction to find her nodding. “Uh. Yes? Sure? Where?”

Beau mimes his blinking, like she hadn’t expected him to agree so readily, and then coughs. “I was thinking the Nestled Nook. ‘Cause it’s so close, you know—”

“Ja, that sounds fine,” says Caleb, already standing and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. “Nott—” He pauses, one sleeve on and one off. “Just… have fun on lunch and recess duty.”

“I never do,” says Nott cheerfully.

Beau snorts, Caleb sighs, and then they’re off. The two-minute drive—in Beau’s pickup, to her insistence—is quiet. Under their silence, the radio plays headache-inducing black metal, which Beau herself doesn’t seem too fond of. Caleb assumes she’s too stubborn to change it now and doesn’t point it out.

At the Nestled Nook, they’re seated at the table Jester drew a dick on, which gives Caleb something to focus on besides the uncomfortable look Beau is wearing. (He’s morbidly fascinated by how detailed the drawing is.) Beau picks her nails in silence while they check the menus and wait for the waiter to swing by again. After they order (Caleb a small salad, Beau a meaty sandwich), they fall into another awkward silence, in which Caleb contemplates how the hell to start a conversation now and Beau continues chewing her nail beds to shreds.

“So….” Caleb looks up with dread. Beau clicks her tongue, then says, clearly grasping for straws, “Happy Pi Day? That seems like your, uh, nerd jam.”

This isn’t a subject he’s super pumped about, but it is one he can handle. “Are you implying you aren’t a nerd?”

“I’m a PE teacher. By definition, I’m not.”

“Beau, I have played Dungeons and Dragons with you. More than once. You cried when your monk died.”

Beau looks around, realizes she doesn’t have her menu with her anymore, and settles for hitting Caleb on the shoulder with a napkin instead. “We don’t talk about that.”

Caleb retaliates by kicking her under the table, because she’s wearing sandals. (He knows for a fact Beau would go to school—and subsequently any restaurants for lunch break—barefoot if it weren’t against the dress code, climate and miscellaneous objects around Zadash be damned. Even the needle- and glass-ridden playground.) Beau swears under her breath and kicks him back. He winces, shrinking back in his chair. He knows for a fact that ended up hurting him more than it did her.

“But, seriously,” says Beau, and Caleb’s anxiety spikes, “you look like shit, man. Like—uh, like you’re gonna pass out any second. What’s up?”

“You should have warned me you were going to try and initiate a heart-to-heart,” says Caleb, staring at Jester’s dick carving in the table. “I would not have agreed to come.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want,” snaps Beau. She looks away, face twisting with frustration. Before she speaks again, she takes a deep breath—Caleb bites his tongue to keep from mentioning the breathing pattern—and runs her fingers through her hair. “I just thought it might help. We can’t get drunk if we want to be—” she deepens her already-low voice “—responsible authority figures or whatever. But I’ve been told it’s the bonding experience that matters, not the alcohol.”

“This seems like a paradox,” says Caleb. “The bonding experience is important, sure, okay, ja. But if alcohol gets you to open up in the first place, then the bonding experience cannot exist _without_ alcohol. Who told you that?”

Beau throws her hands up. “Nobody. I made it up five seconds ago. And you’re stalling.”

Caleb heaves a sigh. “Fine. You would not happen to have any advice for love confessions, would you?”

“None whatsoever.” As Caleb drops his gaze to the table again, Beau takes a swig of her water—which she promptly chokes on. “Wait. Wait wait wait wait. You’re—you’re actually thinking about it? Telling Molly you like him, I mean. ‘Cause I thought you’d live in your backbone-less glory for eternity—”

“Not just thinking about it,” cuts in Caleb, not wanting to hear where that sentence goes. “I—Jester and I, we made a plan—”

“Hold up, _Jester_ knew?” Beau kicks Caleb in the shin. “C’mon, machi, I thought we had a whole solidarity thing going on. Even though, uh, I guess the confidant thing ended when Yasha and I started dating.” She smiles as soon as she mentions it, eyes crinkling with the sincere grin that now takes up half her face. Terrifying but sweet.

“Ja, ja _,_ and the fact that pretty much all of our friends already knew our secrets,” says Caleb. “It was a flawed alliance from the beginning.” Beau gives him a flat look and kicks him again. He can’t blame her. “But—but yes, I—I am planning to. To tell him. Today, actually.”

With a low whistle, Beau folds her arms and leans back in her seat. “Shit, man. I don’t really have anything I can tell you, I don’t think. Uh. Good luck…?”

“That’s—yeah, that is fine,” says Caleb, having not expected much. “Was just curious.” He pauses, seeing the waiter approach, and as soon as their food’s been dropped off, he says, “Okay, new subject. Tell me something about Yasha.”

Beau’s entire face lights up. Once she finishes chewing, she launches into a story about a dog-walking adventure with Yasha and her pitbull/rottweiler mix, Kord. Caleb doesn’t know how to react to the new knowledge that Yasha has a dog, but the fact that Beau’s morning jogs have become a couple’s activity with Yasha and her dog is easier to swallow. (Beau shows him pictures of Kord in the middle of her story. When she closes the photos app, he doesn’t comment on her wallpaper being a candid picture of Yasha with a soft smile on her face.)

The drive back to school is much more comfortable than the drive away. Beau puts on music she actually seems to like and that Caleb doesn’t mind. They don’t speak, but after Beau stops the car and before they get out, she elbows his shoulder and holds his gaze for a long couple of moments. He averts his eyes when it starts to hurt. He gets what she’s left unsaid.

Back inside, the rest of the afternoon goes uneventfully. Caleb almost trips over his tongue several times in the five minutes total he talks to Molly before and after his class time, but that’s a weekly occurrence by now. The last hour or so before the school day ends is quieter.

After he hears the last bus pull away, Caleb stands and grabs the gift box out of his desk drawer. “You can go wait in the car,” he tells Nott over his shoulder. “I—uh—I will be back to drive us home. Here, take the keys—”

She flashes him a thumbs-up from across the library, where she’s half-hidden behind the random _Animorphs_ book she’d said she was reading ironically and then gotten sucked into. He heads upstairs.

The silence of the halls surrounds him—it’s more than a little off-putting. He’d never had to consciously take into account waiting until the students and other faculty members were gone to walk through the halls before. He listens to the sounds of his own footsteps against the stairs, then the more muffling carpet. He doesn’t listen to his own thoughts.

As he walks, he thinks about the fact that, between last month and today, it seems love confessions between staff members on the school grounds have grown commonplace. Or at least into an above average total. It’ll be two by the time Caleb walks out, which still seems like a lot.

When he hears heavier footsteps join his, he looks up, startled, and stops just in time to avoid running into the immovable object that is Yasha heading in the opposite direction he is. (Though she’s stopped at seeing him as well.) With a short nod, she steps to his left.

“Afternoon.” Yasha’s mismatched eyes flicker across him, settling on the neatly-wrapped box cradled in his hands. Her lips quirk. “He’s still in his classroom. Working overtime tonight.”

“I—” Caleb clears his throat, already warm face heating up. “Thank you?”

“Of course,” says Yasha. She steps forward, shoulder jostling his, then pauses and clasps his upper arm and _wow_ are her hands big and powerful. Caleb freezes. If there weren’t a physical barrier holding him in place, the psychological effect would’ve done the trick. “I do not intend on giving you a shovel talk, because I know you’re a good man and I trust Molly’s judgment. But—”

Caleb’s throat dries.

“Don’t fuck up. Og gangi þér vel.” On that note, she releases his arm and, smiling thinly, continues walking.

His brain scrambles to translate the phrase. When it clicks into place as _and good luck_ , he turns to call, “Takk.”

Yasha tilts her head back, smirk wide and still somehow intimidating, then turns back around. Caleb blinks and watches her hair flow after her as she walks. The sound of her key ring swinging cuts through the hall. When the exit door shuts after her, Caleb snaps himself out of it. He understands her effect on Beau a little more now, he thinks, even if he’s not attracted to her in the slightest.

His footsteps resume their ominous echoing until Molly’s closed classroom door sits before him. He fixes his gaze on the room number plate for several uncomfortable seconds, silver _9_ burning into the backs of his eyelids. For a moment, Caleb breathes out and listens to his heartbeat. He’s really doing this. He could back out, if he wanted—he could walk away right now, but—

He shifts the box into one hand, tucks it behind his back, and opens the door.

The overhead lights are turned off, but given it’s still bright out, the room is light regardless. Molly, hunched over a stack of papers, doesn’t look up—he has earbuds in, connected to the phone on his desk. He absently twirls the pen in his hand. Soft lavender hair spills forward, curls framing his concentration-scrunched face.

Caleb knocks on the door frame.

Molly’s head snaps up, and his chair screeches back with his full-body start. His face reddens as he plasters a bright smile on. It’s a little amusing, watching him trying to regain his composure, so Caleb stays silent, smiling quietly.

“Ah, what a—a pleasant surprise,” says Molly, reaching up to tug his earbuds out. “What can I do for you, Caleb?”

“I would—” Caleb clears his throat. _Come_ on _,_ says a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Beau’s. “I would like to give you something.”

Blinking, Molly glances back down to his papers again. He seems to decide they’re not worth the time and gets to his feet. “Oh? What would that be, dear?”

All this, and Caleb is going to lose it over a pet name Molly uses for everyone, he thinks mournfully as the eternal blush on his face travels to his ears. He steels himself. Molly takes a couple hesitant steps, and Caleb pulls his hand out from behind his back.

Molly’s eyes widen when he sees the box; Caleb can’t completely understand why. It’s only big enough to hold the cookies, an extra bag of candies, and the wrapped earrings. It isn’t fancy, either—the lid is tied on with a sparkly gold bow, but the box itself is a dull brown. And yet Molly’s gaze glints as he peers down.

He glances back up at Caleb and gestures to the box with a silent question— _may I?_ Caleb stiffens but nods, holding out his hand. Molly takes it (their fingers brush in the exchange, and Caleb definitely doesn’t dwell on it) and fits his fingers under the bow. He pops it off without tearing it, something Caleb is grateful for. He’s less grateful when Molly, after a quick glance around, deposits the bow in his still-open palm.

“Sorry,” says Molly, flashing his trademark smile. “Nearest desk was too far away.”

“It’s fine,” says Caleb.

He watches as Molly slips off the lid next. The moment he processes the contents is noticeable—his eyes go wide, and his fingers tighten on the box’s sides, and it’s a long beat before he moves again. Steadying the box in one hand, he reaches in with the other, slow but firm. He gingerly plucks one set of earrings out and unwraps them.

Molly inhales, sharp, and runs his fingers across the textured hoops. “Caleb, these are _gorgeous_ ,” he says. “How much were they?”

Scratching the side of his neck, Caleb doesn’t answer. Molly pulls a face but moves onto the other pair. As soon as he undoes the bubble wrap, he sucks in another breath. His fingers linger over the rubies and the elegant shapes of the sun and moon charms. The gold reflects in his eyes, a gentle complement to the warm color they already appear in the lighting.

“And these,” he says, strangled. “You—you had to pay a fortune. Why—”

“Open the bags,” says Caleb. He could point out that Jester provided most of the cash, but that seems opposed to the current mood of the room.

With a little nod, Molly does. The cookies are first, then (after a promising eyebrow lift) the candies. Those are a mishmash of store-bought chocolates and hard candies—all of which Caleb had, after a panicked Google search for White Day presents with more positive connotations, bought yesterday. Molly toys with the silver ribbon around the bag of cookies and looks up again.

“Jester and Nott helped bake those,” says Caleb, ignoring the overarching question in Molly’s expression. “And the—the candies, I bought those. I, uh, wasn’t sure which ones you liked, so there are. A lot.”

Molly swallows audibly and brushes back a loose lock of hair, face open and tender. “This is all wonderful, dear, don’t get me wrong. What’s it for? Not my birthday anytime soon, and, uh, I’m pretty sure you don’t celebrate Easter—plus, that isn’t for another couple weeks, I think, but don’t quote the lapsed Catholic—”

Itchy splotches of heat reach Caleb’s neck. “No, uh. This was Jester’s idea. Valentine’s Day was exactly one month ago, so—”

“White Day,” says Molly, awed. And then he bursts out laughing.

It isn’t a shallow or quiet laugh, either. It’s a guffaw, really, his entire face lighting up with it. Caleb tries not to make his staring too obvious. He’s only seen Molly laugh like this once before, and that had been the night he realized how head over heels he was and they hadn’t been this close, so forgive him for being just short of mesmerized.

“Should’ve guessed it when you mentioned Jester,” says Molly, still wheezing. “I—I don’t know much about its traditions, but I can imagine this all sends some pretty mixed messages.” He takes the gold bow back from Caleb and shifts it and the box into his elbow, then reaches up to twist at his current earrings.

Caleb’s gaze falls to his shoes. “I—ja. It isn’t celebrated here, though, so I thought, ah, there could be some leeway—I do not. Um. I’m not… good at this.” He pauses, listening to the clink of metal, but refuses to look up. “Hence why I, uh, sought out Jester. Her advice is, well—it’s questionable, but it was better than anything I could have come up with myself. So I apologize in advance for any—any lack of creativity _I_ have if—if—”

“If what, dear?” Molly sounds closer than he had been a moment ago.

“I,” starts Caleb, and then he stops, bringing his hands together to fidget with. He takes another breath and runs over the infinite variations of this conversation he’d run over in his head. “I have come to like you, Mollymauk Tealeaf, a lot. Romantically. That is. So much that I do not, um, think the word _like_ is strong enough.” His words stick together, clumsy, accent thicker than usual. “I haven’t—I haven’t cared for someone the way I do you in a long, _long_ time. But if it is something you would also like, I would—I would like to be with you. Uh. Date.

“And,” he’s quick to add, “it—it is completely all right if that is not something you want. If you do not, uh—if you don’t return my feelings, that is fine, no pressure. But I—I wanted to tell you.”

Jesus Christ, he’s going to spontaneously combust. Even _Beau_ hadn’t sounded this bad. Before him, Molly is silent—the clinking jewelry has stopped. Unable to take the silence, Caleb lifts his head.

One thing is at once noticeable: Molly’s earrings. He’s swapped out the small silver Celtic crosses with the gold sun and moon, which hang a couple inches above his shoulder and serve as a contrast to his hair. A soft smile has overtaken his face, too, warm and with a hint of teeth. The box, bow and all, now rests atop one of his students’ desks.

He reaches up, slow, and curls his hand around Caleb’s cheek. His thumb smooths along the line of Caleb’s cheekbone. Caleb manages not to completely panic—there’s still a swelling feeling in his chest, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but he can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I would very much like that too, love,” says Molly, words more of a long exhale. His hand drops to splay across the side of Caleb’s neck. “Is it okay if I—”

“Yes,” says Caleb, and he kisses him.

The world stands still for a charged instant until Molly leans in, nose bumping against Caleb’s cheek and smile mashed comfortably against his. Caleb’s shaky hands jump to Molly’s shoulders and situate there. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, letting the floral scent filling the room—maybe perfume—wash over him. The hand on Caleb’s neck lifts to settle on his jaw and slots beneath his hair; Molly’s other hand lands on the back of his neck.

Given the fact that Caleb hasn’t kissed anyone in at least ten years, among other things, it’s far from perfect. There are no fireworks. It’s uncoordinated and giddy and honestly shitty from a logic-based standpoint. It’s also warm and calming and above and beyond any imagined scenarios—how imperfect it is perhaps makes it perfect, in an odd way. A brief moment passes, and the creeping need for space overwhelms the want to stay pressed as close together as possible. Caleb stumbles backward. He smiles—semi-apologetic, though Molly’s eyes don’t open for another couple seconds—and presses his forehead against Molly’s.

Molly’s hand slips under Caleb’s chin and tilt his head up. Their eyes meet. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” says Molly into the silence, near reverent.

Thoughts stitching back together, Caleb recalls a quiet moment in the corner of the Leaky Tap what seems like years ago. “I still have no clue what that means.”

“It means _I love you_.” Molly’s mouth twitches as he says it—it’s meant casually, Caleb is sure, but said in a low tone that’s anything but. “Well, it literally means _my heart is inside you_. That one sounds a little weird, though, so—”

“Oh.” Caleb’s soft smile widens, and his hand snaps up to Molly’s cheek to swipe back a few loose strands of hair. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he repeats, weighing each syllable in his mouth. He doesn’t know what the actual reciprocal statement is, so he adds, “Too.”

Molly snickers. “Your accent is atrocious, love,” he says, but he kisses him again anyway.

As soon as they pull away again, Caleb—partially to avoid thinking too hard about the new term of endearment—decides to bring up something else from that evening. “What did you say in Tagalog again?”

“Hihintayin kita,” Molly fills in, tone a bit wistful. “It means _I will wait for you._ I have, trust me. I didn’t want to rush you, darling, but—” He shakes his head with a little laugh. “Trust me when I say I’ve been carrying a torch for some time now.”

An absent smile still playing on his face, Molly leans back to adjust his lip ring. There’s a half-formed and likely illogical apology on Caleb’s tongue, but it’s cut off by Molly’s hands coming to rest on either side of his face. His mouth opens and then closes again as he glances across Caleb’s expression.

“You said—you said it was okay if I didn’t return your feelings,” says Molly, one index finger subconsciously tapping an uneven rhythm into Caleb’s skin. Caleb glances at his nails. “And I’d just—I’d like to make it more clear than I already, er, have how untrue that is. Caleb, even the _possibility_ of me not being utterly in love with you is—” Molly shakes his head and laughs, short and high. “I don’t think I can imagine that.”

Caleb is nodding before he realizes it. He can understand that, even if the tinny voice at the back of his mind wants to turn Molly’s proclaimed love for him into a debate. He’s pretty sure he can’t voice his feelings coherently, so he stays silent. His hands come up to hold Molly’s wrists. Molly smiles and lets his hands lower from Caleb’s cheeks, so Caleb is sure some form of his thoughts come across.

There’s a soft, quiet beat, then—“You legally have to tell me what you said in Latin now, I think. It’s only fair.”

Caleb almost chokes on his sudden urge to laugh. “It is—it is fair, ja, I suppose so. That—it was a quote from Virgil’s _Eclogues_. _Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori._ Means something along the lines of—that is not helping me remember,” he adds, interrupting himself as Molly untangles one of his hands to link their fingers together.

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Molly, the epitome of innocence.

With a sigh, Caleb tightens his loose grip on Molly’s hand and shuts his eyes so he doesn’t get distracted by the thousand-watt smile. “One translation is _love conquers all; let us, too, yield to love_. It—uh, it was the first thing I could think of when you asked me to say something in Latin. Probably should have gone with _carpe diem_ , hm?”

He opens his eyes to see Molly still smiling from ear to ear, if stiffer. Slower than his usual motions, Molly tucks his head into the space between Caleb’s neck and shoulder. Caleb blinks and doesn’t move. It’s only when Molly curls his arms around Caleb’s waist that, on a long-forgotten instinct, Caleb wraps his arms around him, hands awkwardly tucking around his shoulders. He forces his posture to relax—and just as he does, he realizes Molly is shaking. Panic takes over for several fleeting seconds. Then, still blinking, he notices the breathy giggles against his collar.

“Dear God,” says Molly, through his laughter, “we are both so _stupid_.”

Well, Caleb can’t disagree.

(“You have lipstick on your face,” is the first thing Nott says to Caleb when he gets into the car twenty-odd minutes later.

He glances in the rearview mirror. “I do,” he says, also cognizant of the smile even the blunt greeting can’t wipe off his face. He can, however, wipe off the smear of maroon around his mouth; he reaches up to swipe his sleeve across his face.

Nott scratches her cheek and picks at the torn knee of her jeans. There’s a long, stifled pause—in which Caleb wipes the remaining lipstick off his face—then she mumbles, “And, y’know, I’m happy for you and all. You look—” She frowns, staring straight forward at the playground fence. “I haven’t seen you smile like this since—since. Well. Before.” She doesn’t have to clarify when.

“…Thank you, Mäuschen.”

“Never tell me the details of _why_ the lipstick on your face, though.”

“Never,” agrees Caleb, and then, still smiling, he drives.)

+

All in all, things change just as much as they don’t.

The most tangible thing that comes out of the equation is the at-first laughable fact that Caleb has a boyfriend now. (They hash out the titles in an anxiety spiral-induced phone call that night.)

And there’s the fact that his friends also know this. Caleb isn’t entirely sure if Molly tells them or if they’ve just somehow developed a mind link. The first thing Caleb sees Thursday morning—and the most exhilarating part of the day—is the blur that is Jester charging out of the office to greet him. Ornna almost drops her coffee. Nott steals Caleb’s library key from his bag and sneaks downstairs before Jester can see her. How he wishes he could do the same.

“How’d it go how’d it go how’d it go?” asks Jester, slapping at his shoulders. Caleb opens his mouth, but she charges on without taking a breath. “You’re like fifty mentally so you don’t have any social media accounts I can snoop on, and Molly’s Tweets are so fucking _cryptic_ , but he showed his new earrings on his Instagram story, so how’d it go? Was our plan totally perfect? Did you realize your heads have been up your asses and make out?”

Caleb blinks away the headache building behind his temples. “It went well,” he says, “and that is all I want to tell you.”

Jester’s face goes smug, then aghast, and as he takes the chance to turn on his heel, she yells, “Caleb! Why are you walking away?!” She doesn’t pursue him, though, perhaps because the first bus is pulling up. He still gets a concerning number of texts from her over the next three hours.

When Fjord’s class shows up later that morning, Fjord takes one look at Caleb’s face, then grins and pats his shoulder. The first time Beau sees Caleb in the hallway, she says nothing but slugs him in the arm with so much force he almost chokes on his sharp inhale. He shoots her the worst glare he can muster. It’s dampened by the way he’s gritting his teeth and rubbing his arm.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding it. “Can we talk again about your choice in men, though, ‘cause I know I’ve already done that a shitton, but—”

He promptly diverts his course to the health room to get an ice pack. “Talk to you later, Beau.”

Her stockpiling texts join Jester’s. On Friday, Yasha gives him a pointed look in the library doorway—instead of initiating physical contact or inflicting bodily harm, she flashes him a thumbs-up. He’s more than grateful for her existence.

Besides these things, though, little changes in the days following Operation: White Day. Molly offers to drive Caleb and Nott to school more often and vice versa, and the only thing drastically changed is that their greetings consist of more quick pecks and doting smiles than actual _hello_ s. Much to Nott’s agony.

At least, that’s how it is until a full week later (which is, coincidentally, the week before spring break). Around lunch, right before the bell is supposed to ring, Molly swings into the library. This on its own is not so unusual. Caleb hears him come in, then hears his nails tap on the door frame, but doesn’t look up from his desktop.

“Miss Nott,” says Molly, “would you mind terribly if I borrowed your brother for an hour or so?”

That makes Caleb look up. Nott narrows her eyes—when she apparently finds no suspicious details in Molly’s expression, she scrunches her nose and says, “I guess.” It’s the closest thing to outright approval Caleb thinks she’ll show for a while.

Molly clasps his hands together. “Splendid. Caleb—?”

He’s already getting up and grabbing his jacket. “Nott, Schwesterherz, do not do anything I wouldn’t,” he says. Then, to Molly, “Where are we going?”

“So don’t do _anything_ , then,” deadpans Nott.

“Lunch,” says Molly at the same time. “Nestled Nook?”

Caleb shoots Nott a flat look and says, “Sure.”

It’s only when they’re in Molly’s car, hands dusting over the console, that it clicks that this is A Date. Caleb then recalls he’s been on less than five dates in his entire life. It also isn’t the most opportune time for a date, given school is in session and it’s only Molly’s lunch break (which is only forty-five minutes long), even if Nott is covering Caleb’s current responsibilities.

Oh well, thinks Caleb. He ignores his quickening pulse, letting his shoulders unwind and Bon Jovi flow over the car.

As they’re pulling out of the parking lot, he clears his throat and says, “Nott is—Nott will be less rude to you over time. She—she still does not completely trust everyone, and change is difficult for us both, so—” Molly nods. Caleb scrambles for something else to say. “When she was a teenager, she pulled knives on most of my classmates, so you have a good track record already, I would say.”

“Well, she already has threatened me,” says Molly mildly. “So that one’s out of the way.” When Caleb blinks in surprise, Molly laughs and flips the star-shaped sunglasses resting on his nose back onto his hair. “When we went to get that coat—” he gestures at the very one Caleb is wearing “—she told me she had a knife on her and wasn’t afraid to use it. Far from the worst experience I’ve had.”

“…I am pretty sure that is not the normal response people have when someone threatens to pull a knife on you.”

Molly scoffs. “Please, when have I ever been a normal _person_?”

That’s a good enough point, so Caleb stares at the horizon line and doesn’t say anything else. They make very little conversation on the rest of the way to the Nestled Nook. When they’re seated (it’s at Jester’s dick table again, so Caleb assumes he’s experiencing some form of cosmic retribution), Caleb hesitates for about the three minutes between then and the waitress bringing their waters before he speaks up. Reaching across the table to take Molly’s free hand, he says, a little stifled, “How has your day been going, Schatz?”

Though Molly’s fingers tuck into Caleb’s reflexively, it takes him a moment to look up from the menu. His bright hair tumbles onto one shoulder as he tilts his head up. “Schatz,” he repeats instead of answering. “That’s a new one.”

“Your accent is atrocious,” mocks Caleb.

Molly laughs—he lowers his menu and shifts the hand that had been holding it to prop his cheek up. “Oh, I’m sure it is. Don’t know a lick of German.” He seems to remember the actual question, and says, with a clear of his throat, “Day’s going fine. Even if I made the questionable decision of scheduling an art project today.”

Caleb glances down. The purple paint on Molly’s shirt is almost the same color as the shirt itself, but it stands out in this lighting. “I see that. What was the project?”

“Had my kids paint little self-portraits. I might’ve been a little liberal in my example, clearly.” Molly picks at the collar of his shirt, where most of the paint is concentrated. Tiny flecks trail up his neck.

For a short instant, Caleb’s hand tightens on Molly’s. “I’m sure I’d like to see that.”

Molly’s face brightens. “Of course, of course. Oh—how are you?”

Just as Caleb opens his mouth to reply, the waitress reappears with a pen and pad to take their orders. Brief relief hits him—it’s then replaced with discomfort when it becomes clear the waitress ( _Adelaine_ , says her nametag) is looking right at him. Caleb coughs at being put on the spot and scans the page of the menu he’s got propped open. On one side are various pig-featuring meals; on the other, dishes that include both meat and dairy. Nothing he can or particularly wants to eat.

“Molly, why don’t you order first,” says Caleb, making a vague gesture across the table.

He takes the couple moments it takes Molly to order to flip through the menu again. It isn’t really necessary—he’d looked through it enough times on their breakfast not-dates in January (in retrospect, Caleb wonders if they’d started dating months ago without realizing it) that he’s memorized a good portion. But it at least gives him an excuse to brush off the tightness in his chest and not look up.

By the time the attention rolls back around to him, he’s able to say, “Cheese ravioli with marinara sauce, please,” without coughing. Adelaine takes that down and scurries off.

With a considering look, Molly untwines his fingers from Caleb’s—Caleb’s hand cools at the loss—to instead steeple both his hands. “Since we’re eating right now, it feels like I should ask—I know no pork or shellfish, but I really don’t know anything about kosher food outside of that. Might come up in the future.”

Caleb catches onto the invitation; he tries (and fails) not to smile at the implication of future meals. “Okay, uh—land mammals have to have split hooves and chew their cud: cows and sheep are fine, for example,” he rattles off, sticking out a finger for each item. “Um. Poultry is—the Torah only lists the forbidden birds to eat, but I only eat chicken and turkey. I don’t eat seafood, because it both tastes and smells disgusting, so that—that entire category is null. Oh, and animals are ritually slaughtered and drained of blood. No meat and dairy in the same meal. And I wait three hours between meat meals and dairy meals—can’t use the same utensils for them either.

“There are a few other things,” he adds, “but I can mention those later. I doubt you will try to feed me bugs or reptiles, ja?” And, with that, he pauses to take a long drink of water.

Raising an eyebrow, Molly leans back and nods. “No, I also strongly doubt that’ll happen. I’m not Jester or Yasha,” he says with a little smirk. “So we’re good there.”

“Wunderbar,” deadpans Caleb. He glances down at the table and narrows his eyes at the etching there. “It is a good thing you aren’t Jester, because she got banned for drawing this.”

Frowning, Molly tilts his head forward. As soon as he catches a glimpse of the dick sketch in the table, he bursts out laughing. It’s a joyous, juvenile sort of laughter—his composure drops as he snickers, one hand dropping onto the table. Other patrons shoot them dirty looks. Caleb, for one, is delighted to hear his laugh.

“And,” says Caleb, “I would not want to be on a date with Jester.” He immediately wants to slam his head into the table.

It makes Molly’s laughter settle down, which in turn makes other customers turn away. Caleb wouldn’t dream of it. Molly’s amused, toothy grin morphs into something gentler. A beat of silence, in which Caleb is reminded how stupidly and incredibly in love with the person before him he is.

Something similar seems to cross Molly’s mind, because his face reddens and, dropping Caleb’s gaze, he coughs into his fist. They sit, comfortably quiet, for another few seconds. Caleb, again scrambling for words, glances at Molly’s rolled-up sleeve and blurts, “Tell me about your tattoos.”

“My—?”

“Er. Ja.” He scratches his neck. “You have told me the—the snake one was your first tattoo, I think, but not anything else.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Molly holds out his left arm, baring the tattoo in question. Caleb’s never seen it in the light like this—the details in the lines are astounding. “Got it in Idaho, ‘cause you can get tattoos under eighteen with parental permission there. Dad was just glad I didn’t get a tramp stamp, I think,” he says, snorting, and Caleb forces himself not to think too much about that.

And, before he can talk himself out of it, Caleb reaches out. Molly’s breath hitches when Caleb’s fingers fit around his forearm, thumb darting along the snake scales weaving around his skin. The tail comes out on the back of his hand, curling to an end short of his pinky knuckle. The snake’s head—mouth open, tongue out—curves around his elbow.

When Caleb’s thumb comes upon the rough lines of scar tissue on Molly’s wrist, he hesitates. Molly tenses under his loose grip. Caleb glances up, quick, and then slips his hand back onto the back of Molly’s arm. His fingers follow the flowers dotting the snake instead.

“They’re forget-me-nots,” says Molly quietly, looking relieved Caleb hadn’t commented on the scars. “I wanted my first one to be meaningful. Hurt like a bitch—” his voice raises here, and they receive another slew of dirty looks “—but it set me up for the rest. And it looks nice.” His suspended fingers twitch. “Probably need to get it touched up soon.”

Now that he mentions it, the ink is lighter than the peacock feathers trailing up his other arm. Caleb had chalked it up to the feathers being more filled in. As if feeling Caleb’s gaze shift and his grip loosen, Molly rolls up his other sleeve. Dropping Molly’s left arm, Caleb focuses more firmly on his right side. The blocky feathers disappear up his elbow and reemerge beneath his collar.

“This is from, uh—” His brows twitch for a moment. “My freshman year of college? Kinda spontaneous, but it was a bigger piece, so I had to have thirty-minute sessions for, like, a week straight.”

Caleb winces. Molly shrugs it off and flips his arm over to display his inner forearm. The fuzzy ends of a few feathers show, but that doesn’t seem to be what he’s calling attention to—Caleb’s gaze drops to a simpler tattoo. Overlapping another few faded scars, a bold semi-colon sits on his wrist.

“Oh,” says Caleb.

“This was the next one I got,” says Molly, face a bit more somber. “Uh. The scars were—they were a lot more recent then.” He takes a breath, then leans back and folds his arms on the table. “Can’t show you here without getting kicked out, but I’ve got a moon on one ankle and a sun on the other. They’re pretty recent—from last year. They match the earrings you got me, actually,” he adds with a smile.

“That’s—that is lucky.”

Molly does jazz hands. “Fate.”

“Ja, sure,” says Caleb, as flat as he can. “What about the shoulder piece?”

“Oh, the compass!” Molly taps his left shoulder. “Forgot you could see part of that one. I got it finished—again, this took a few sessions—the night before I got my teaching degree. Yasha got her lightning bolt then, too.”

“Meaningful,” echoes Caleb.

“Exactly,” says Molly, spreading his palms but not wiggling them this time.

Caleb leans back in his chair. “Do you have any more?”

“A big dragon piece on my back. Twenty-one-year-old me thought it’d look cool. It also hurt like hell, especially ‘cause it took almost a month’s worth of sessions and literally covers my entire back.” Molly’s grin widens, and Caleb snorts. With a contemplative look, Molly drums his nails on the table, then adds, “There’s a little infinity sign right at the base of my neck too. Got it a couple years before the dragon, at the same parlor I got the semi-colon.”

“Nice place,” says Caleb.

Molly nods. “It’s up in, uh, Washington? And run by some very sweet, very punk rock lesbians. Anyway, that’s all the ink I’ve got—for now, at least. Been planning some more, though.” He sighs, longing, and sinks forward into his palm. “If I weren’t a teacher, I would have a tattoo on every inch of skin.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t, uh, seem to have stopped you much.”

“Oh, I’ve held off my poor impulse control more than you think,” says Molly, holding his gaze. Somehow, Caleb doesn’t think they’re only talking about the tattoos anymore. Molly clears his throat and pats the table, making Caleb jump. “Enough about me—”

“Words I never thought I’d hear you say,” mutters Caleb.

Molly ignores him. “You never did answer my question about how your day’s going, love.”

“Uh. Right.” He’s seized with the urge to avoid the minute question about himself. Molly quirks his head, and _really_ , thinks Caleb, _it isn’t like he’s asking intimate details about your trauma. Conversation on a date shouldn’t feel like pulling teeth._ “It’s been fine. Fjord’s class is always pretty good—no one tried to steal from me, so that is always a plus, ja?”

“Steal?”

“Ah—I get younger grades trying to sneak books under their shirts all the time,” says Caleb, lips quirking despite the undertone of irritation in his voice. “Older kids are stealthier, but since Nott started helping out, they haven’t taken as many. She knows what to look for.”

“That’s good,” says Molly, shoulders slacking a little. Something like concern sits in his expression. “Is—this happens ‘all the time,’ you said?”

Caleb’s fingers link together, mirroring Molly’s earlier position. “That was a bit of hyperbole, but yes, it is more often than I would like. None of your students have this year to my knowledge, if that’s what—”

“No, no, not necessarily.” Molly lifts a hand. “I’m just—I’m sorry that happens. I know how much your books mean to you.”

“It is what it is,” says Caleb, tone more flippant than usual. The next several seconds are filled with uncomfortable silence—Caleb takes a sip of water, swallows, and then starts again. “Speaking of your class—”

“Oh no. What’ve those brats done now?”

“—a, uh—a few months ago,” says Caleb, and Molly’s eyes narrow even as he lifts his glass and nods, “Toya said you told them to be nice to me.”

Mid-drink, Molly chokes. It takes a good minute for him to recover, though Caleb thinks the overdramatic mouth-wiping is partially to cover his flush. “How long ago was this?”

“September. The day Nott started.”

“Well, y’know, the human memory is a tricky thing—I’d know—”

“I have hyperthymesia,” cuts in Caleb.

Molly’s cheeks redden further. “Good on you. That’s—that’s fuckin’ incredible.” When Caleb continues to stare, swallowing his smirk in favor of lifting his eyebrows in stony silence, Molly clears his throat. His nails beat a _thump-thump-thump_ pattern into the table. “I—I might’ve said something like that. It’s true they should be nice to you, though.”

Caleb recalls the other half of Toya’s comment. “And not Beau?”

Adelaine appears toting their food before Molly can answer that. As soon as she sets Molly’s plate down, he reaches out to tap her on the wrist. “Miss, will you tell my boyfriend to stop using his very excellent memory to slander me?”

“I don’t get paid enough for that,” says Adelaine, and then she walks off.

“Damn,” mutters Molly as Caleb bursts out laughing, startling even himself. “Thwarted again.”

Once Caleb gets ahold of himself, he manages to say, “It isn’t slander if it is true, Schatz.”

“Oh, would you look at the time,” says Molly. Then he does glance up, gaze shifting above Caleb’s head, and he almost falls out of his chair. “No, actually do, ‘cause we _really_ need to be back at school.”

Caleb glances over his shoulder, to the clock he knows hangs on the wall behind them—a quarter till one. He proceeds to shovel ravioli in his mouth like a dying man.

(They get back a couple of minutes late, but that’s okay.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the symbolism of molly's semi-colon tattoo, for those who don't know](https://projectsemicolon.com/) (tw: a lot of suicide mentions)
> 
> i said this was probably the shortest chapter and this is now obviously Not True--i decided to move a scene from the next chapter into this one bc it felt like it fit better here, so. that's what that's about!! i still think it turned out pretty good though, that hasn't changed (even if i had to rush to finish editing in time)
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!!! see you tuesday! as i've already said i'm really excited for the next few chapters... which are also the last few chapters :< but more on that when we get there i suppose
> 
> translations:  
> \+ Takk: thanks  
> \+ Schatz: treasure
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	13. part iii, chapter iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which spring break begins, passionate opinions about _Mamma Mia!_ are expressed, a card game doubles as an intervention, and a bachelor party is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh not sure what to say about this one! it contains a couple of my favorite scenes in the whole entire fic, so there's that, but boy howdy it was a rough one to edit, because i scrapped one scene and had to basically write another from scratch. honest to god i didn't know if it was going to be done on time but here we are! yay!
> 
> tw for emetophobia in the last few paragraphs -- also, wouldn't call this a warning really but there's brief discussion of + mildly implied sex at the end of the first scene (though like. i thiiink the implication itself is vague enough that you can ignore it if you want)
> 
> enjoy!

It isn’t often Caleb and Nott end up eating breakfast together, given their uncooperative morning routines and how little time there _is_ to eat breakfast on school days, but spring break allows for certain unprecedented freedoms.

This quiet and otherwise unremarkable Sunday morning, they sit opposite each other at the kitchen table. Nott’s hair is newly self-trimmed and bright green, tied into a tiny ponytail with a butterfly-shaped holder Caleb is pretty sure once belonged to Jester. As they eat, they say little to each other, which maybe defeats the point of eating together, but it works for Caleb. (Even if he’s considering grabbing a book to pass the time and thus risking getting bagel crumbs in it.)

They’ve been sitting in calm silence for near twenty minutes when Nott says, “So.”

Caleb lifts his head, but she immediately stops in favor of shoving bread into her mouth again. He pauses, hand on his coffee, and raises an eyebrow. Nott’s tongue clicks against her cheek as she stares down at the table.

“You know how Jester’s wedding is in four days?” she says after a moment.

Slowly, Caleb turns his head to look at the save-the-date card pinned to their refrigerator. Cursive lettering tells them, _Your presence has been requested at the wedding of Fjord & Jester._ A photograph of the two standing in a field of flowers takes up the center of the card. Beside the picture, apple-shaped bullet points denote the time and date.

Caleb pulls his gaze away to look instead at Nott’s phone, lying on the table. As if on cue, it lights up with a new message—one of seven sent in the last fifteen minutes—from Jester.

“Okay, got it, stupid question,” says Nott. “Anyway, she still has some planning to do, the real last-minute shit, and so she invited us—er. She invited me, Beau, Yasha, her friend-slash-ex from out of town Calianna—”

“The substitute, ja?”

“I—I think?” Nott’s brow scrunches, but she waves it off. “We’re having a sleepover tonight. Yasha suggested we get Jester drunk and passed out so we can finish planning the bachelorette party, too, but I don’t—I don’t know if we’ll actually do that.”

“Okay.” Caleb trails off, unsure what the point of her telling him this now is. She appears to be actively avoiding his eyes—fine by him, but still a little odd. His eyes narrow. “Are you, um—are you asking my permission? Because it is fine for you to—”

Nott scowls and tears off a chunk of her roll with her teeth. “No. I’m—I’m an adult, I don’t need your permission to hang out with my friends or have a sleepover—”

“So they’re your friends?” says Caleb, fighting a smile now, and Nott reddens.

“Not the point,” she says. He raises his hands appeasingly—she looks a little less like she wants to throw the abandoned butter knife on the table at him. She does take a deep breath, though, and stares him dead in the face. “Yasha’s picking me up before dinnertime tonight.”

“Hopefully not on her Harley.”

Nott ignores him. “I won’t be home until early tomorrow,” she says, putting too much emphasis on those words. Caleb frowns, and Nott’s face goes even redder. “So if you—if you want to, uh, invite _someone_ over—”

“Oh, Christ.” How did he not realize it was going there? He drops his now-burning face into his hands. Across the table, Nott makes a pained noise. At least they’re both distressed by this conversation. “All right, Schwesterherz, just—just have fun.”

“I will.” A long pause, in which Caleb removes his hands from his face to finish eating. Then Nott adds, strained, “You too.”

He almost chokes on his bagel. “Please go get ready now.”

Nott shoots up from the table like she had been waiting for the opportunity to cut and run—knowing her, she probably had. She pauses in the doorway and, glancing over her shoulder, says, “You were planning on inviting him to the seder, right?”

“Ah,” says Caleb. He hadn’t forgotten, per se, but it’s only the second full day of summer break, and—okay, maybe he’d been putting it off a little. “I—I was, ja. I suppose I can do that tonight.”

With a short nod, Nott disappears, leaving Caleb to his breakfast and (less enjoyable) his thoughts.

After much deliberation, Caleb does end up texting Molly to ask if, indeed, he would like to have dinner at Caleb and Nott’s tonight. (The answer, coming within two minutes, is an unequivocal yes. Though they proceed to spend the next twenty minutes debating _what_ to eat.) Around three, Yasha shows up—in her Subaru. Nott winks stiffly as she says goodbye, a move that is uncomfortable for both involved parties.

“Good _bye_ , Mäuschen. Have—have fun,” calls Caleb, head in his hands.

Three and a half hours later, Molly shows up with take-out and a good percentage of his movie collection. (Which had also been debated several hours ago.) Frumpkin trots right up to him—perhaps coaxed by the scent of food, perhaps just intrigued by the familiar but not _too_ familiar face. Molly, in the middle of a greeting, stops dead to shove the food and movies into Caleb’s arms, then crouches. Frumpkin sniffs his outstretched palm while Caleb tries to balance the various items he’s now holding.

“I can—I can make him go away if you want,” says Caleb.

Molly shoots him an offended look. “Do you not remember me threatening to steal him? I would die for your cat, Caleb. He stays right here.” Frumpkin purrs in response.

“Well I would prefer if you didn’t die, but all right.” Caleb glances at the food cartons in his arms. “Would you, uh, mind feeding him while I—I get this set up, actually? His food is right over—” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. The jar on the counter with a scoop inside should be self-explanatory enough.

“Oh, sure,” says Molly. He gives Frumpkin’s head one more pat, and then strolls over into the kitchen, beckoning Frumpkin to follow him (which doesn’t take much doing).

Caleb, on the other hand, heads to the living room, cradling the new weight cautiously. He sets the unopened cartons down on the coffee table one-by-one. Then, wary, he lets the several DVD cases spill onto the center of the couch and sits as close to the edge to the couch as possible (which is very close). The sounds of Frumpkin chewing followed by Molly’s footsteps seem to come from a distance, but Caleb glances up to see Molly hovering by the couch after a beat.

As he sits on the opposite end, Molly eyes the decorations on the hearth and laughs under his breath. “I see you kept the cats from Halloween.”

“How could we not have?”

“You know,” says Molly, “they weren’t really left over.” When Caleb says nothing, only tilting his head, Molly coughs. “Uh, Gustav did offer to just give ‘em away, but Jester and Beau convinced me to earn them, and I’m pretty sure I said something along the lines of ‘Oh, what the hell.’ The beanbag toss was harder than it looked, so it, er, took a few tries. And the Knot twins made fun of me.”

Caleb snickers. “None of this is surprising. Thank you for them again, though,” he says, and Molly shrugs airily. “Also, there are at least five movies here and I have no idea what most of them are.”

“All right, uh—” Molly gives the DVD cases a quick look and, after a couple seconds of deliberation, snatches one. “Have you ever watched _Mamma Mia!_?”

“I—probably?” He has a vague recollection of a teenage Nott dragging him to the theater and picking one of several mediocre-seeming options at random. “But I do not remember anything from it, so—”

“Perfect,” says Molly, already up and heading over to the DVD player.

He settles back down after a moment, grabbing his food off the coffee table and, pointedly casual, slings his legs over Caleb’s lap. Frumpkin joins them before long—he curls up on the couch beside Molly, still hungry enough to try and sneak some food. Caleb pretends to ignore Molly sneaking bites over to him. (It’s nothing bad for cats, and it’s Nott’s turn on litter duty this week.)

Midway through, Frumpkin hops off the couch and saunters away to parts unknown. Molly’s disappointment is rather short-lived in favor of humming along to the titular song. Caleb doesn’t comment on the plot’s inanity and dependence on miscommunication—instead, despite himself, he’s oddly charmed for the remaining hour, both by the movie itself and Molly’s clear attachment to it.

Case in point: when the credits roll, the first thing Molly says is, “My theory? The biological father isn’t Sam, Harry, _or_ Bill. It’s the god Apollo. Think about it. It takes place on a tiny island in Greece, right, and Meryl Streep would undoubtedly have the power to attract a god himself. Plus, there’s that shot of the townspeople as the Greek gods at the end, and they were known to disguise themselves as mortals—even real people, like Zeus seducing Heracles’ mother as her husband—to have flings—”

“You have thought about this a lot, haven’t you,” says Caleb.

“Yes,” says Molly. “If I hadn’t been an education major, I would have written my senior thesis on it.”

Caleb laughs. “Do you want to tell me more about your theory, or should we put another movie on?”

“Actually—would you read to me?” Molly’s eyes flutter shut for an instant, and Caleb tentatively brushes away a stray eyelash. He doesn’t make a wish; can’t think of one, in fact, that isn’t impossible or that hasn’t already come true. “I can’t really focus on reading, so I don’t read very much. Being forced to look at the same bits of text over and over again for months after my accident kinda took it out of me.” He laughs, soft, and opens his eyes. “But I like your voice, and you like reading, so.”

Caleb coughs, mostly to cover his smile. “I would not mind that at all, no. Any, uh, book suggestions? I—I do have a lot—”

“Surprise me.”

He ends up picking _Frankenstein_ —any other time, he might be inclined to pick something a bit newer, but he doubts riveting entertainment is really what Molly is looking for, and _he_ likes _Frankenstein_. Molly sprawls across the couch, feet dangling off the armrest and head propped against Caleb’s lap. Caleb runs an absent but cautious hand through Molly’s hair while he reads.

He’s almost halfway through chapter four when he notices Molly’s breathing slowing, the lines of his expression softening. With a tiny snort, Caleb sets the book aside and nudges Molly’s cheek. “Are you awake?”

“Mm,” says Molly. Then, brows furrowing, he blinks and straightens up, tucking his legs back onto the couch seat. “Uh, what—what time is it?”

Caleb glances at the clock. “Almost ten-thirty.”

“Ah, shit, I’d better be getting home—”

“You can—if you would like, you could spend the night,” says Caleb, not totally sure if his voice is shaking or not. Molly pauses. “I—I realize what that implies, and we have not really talked about—” That’s uncharacteristic, now that he thinks about it, but he shrugs it off. “I would not. Uh. I would not be opposed—I mean, I have thought—Scheiße, okay, one moment please.”

Molly sits up further, moving so he’s still on the couch, legs crossed, and isn’t making any possibly anxiety-inducing physical contact. Caleb appreciates the intent but isn’t sure if it’s as helpful as Molly assumes. He rubs his face and avoids eye contact—not that different from usual, then.

“It is not that I don’t want you to, well, spend the night,” he says, hands wringing. “I have, uh, let’s say intimacy issues. Mostly for—for reasons you already know. And—and because of that, I genuinely do not know if I’m ready to—” He stops talking, jaw clicking shut. He’s pretty sure not being able to _say_ “sex” actively disqualifies him from having it.

“We can talk more about it if you want,” says Molly after another silent moment. “I don’t—I want to make this clear now, I expressly do not want anything you don’t. Point blank.” He pauses, gauging Caleb’s reaction (not much of one), and then says, “How about this: I stay the night, we talk. Whatever happens happens, and whatever doesn’t doesn’t. Is that an all right policy?”

Caleb hesitates, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

+

Caleb wakes to near-blinding sunlight and the rumble of voices in the living room, one high-pitched and one lower but both familiar. The sheets are pulled up to his chin—he’s certain they hadn’t been last night. He tilts his head to the side. Despite the drawn curtains and shut blinds, light strikes every dark corner of his bedroom. Caleb groans, tosses an arm over his eyes, and pats the other side of the bed with his free hand.

Nothing there.

Disregarding the painful sunlight, Caleb sits up. The mattress is warm and indented under his fingertips—can’t have been gone for too long, then. He cranes his neck and slides closer to the door, rubbing crust from his eyes, but Caleb still can’t pick up any distinct words from the conversation outside. He goes ahead with the morning prayer.

His bones crunch when he gets up. He doesn’t dwell on it as he heads into the bathroom to piss, wash his hands, and dress quickly and silently. He still can’t make out anything from the living room, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. When he heads out, a sense of dread rests somewhere in his chest—nothing, however, prepares him for the sight before him.

The coffee table has been moved to sit against one bookshelf, making room for Molly (who’s wearing Caleb’s robe over boxers and his crop top from yesterday) and Nott (who’s wearing new clothes and whose hair is damp). They sit opposite each other on the floor. Nott has her legs crossed; Molly has one leg sprawled out and the other propped up for his elbow to rest on. Both hold a deck of cards. Between them rests a pool of upside-down cars. Sets of four sit around them, about the same amount for each.

“Go fish,” Nott is saying. Her head jerks up at, wide eyes meeting Caleb’s, and she beams. “Morning!”

Molly glances up, too, from where he’s reaching into the pool of cards. “Oh, hi.”

Instead of acknowledging the odd scene of the two amiably playing card games, Caleb rubs his eyes. Maybe it’s a dream. A very strange dream. He pinches his arm as hard as he can (which is to say, not very). Out of luck.

“Nott,” he decides to say, “I thought you were not supposed to be back until later.”

“It’s half past eleven. Jester dropped me off a couple hours ago.” Nott bites her lip and stares at her deck. “Molly, any threes?”

“Go fish,” says Molly. Scowling, Nott does.

Come to think of it, it is brighter than it ought to be at Caleb’s usual wake-up time. He glances around for Frumpkin and finds him asleep in the corner. That’s normal, at least, so he turns back to Molly and folds his arms. “You—you let me sleep in.”

“I did. You looked very peaceful.” Molly leans back, watching as Nott draws and then pulls a face, which she immediately tries to mask. “Kings?”

“Fuck you,” says Nott, handing two cards over. Molly’s smile widens. He sets down a set of four, whistling at his growing pile. Steam curls off Nott’s ears, but she says, “Molly doesn’t think you’ve been sleeping much. I _know_ you haven’t. Any… eights?”

Both turn their gazes on him, even while Molly huffs and passes a card to Nott. Caleb narrows his eyes and says, “Is this a fucking intervention?”

“Nothing of the sort, darling,” says Molly blandly. “But—and be honest, please—how many hours of sleep, total, do you think you’ve gotten in the past week alone? Nott, aces?”

“None. Go fish.”

“I have no clue,” says Caleb. “A normal amount?”

Nott jabs an accusatory finger at him, somehow doing so without dropping any of her cards or revealing them to Molly. “Liar! Nines, Molly?”

“Hey, I—”

“Damn,” mutters Molly, taking three from his deck. Nott grins and lays down another book. “Look, Caleb, everyone knows you’re a workaholic—”

“I am—” Caleb falls short of saying _not_ when Molly, Nott, and even _Frumpkin_ turn and stare at him. They even all have the same deadpan look. He shuffles his feet. “So this really seems like an intervention.”

“It isn’t,” say Molly and Nott in unison.

Molly drums a nail along his shrinking deck. “Hm… do you have a joker?”

“Go fish.”

“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.” Molly draws from the pile, then grins and flashes a joker card. “Eights?”

Nott grimaces and hands two over. Caleb curls one of his hands into a fist—Nott glances his direction and says, pointed, “We’re worried. You need to sleep more.”

“Well put,” says Molly.

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ja, all right, I do not sleep enough. I’m an insomniac with anxiety and PTSD and my sleep schedule is bad, but it is still a hard habit to shake. Not entirely my fault.” Biting her cheek, Nott studies her card deck. Molly gives a short, understanding nod. “Okay, it’s a _little_ my fault for not fixing my sleep schedule years ago. I get your point.”

“Will you sleep more?” says Nott, perking up. Then, with a quick glance back down, she adds, “Sixes?”

“I will try,” says Caleb, half a truth.

At the same time, Molly says, “Go fish.”

Nott stretches to pluck a card out of the pile. “Good enough,” she decides, and Molly nods in agreement. “Want to help me win Go Fish now?”

“No, I am going to go eat because it’s almost noon.”

“Spoilsport.”

+

Early Wednesday afternoon, Nott sets off for Jester’s hyped-up—even Caleb has heard rumors, most spread by Jester herself—bachelorette party, with promises she won’t be back until the witching hours (if tonight at all). This leaves Caleb alone for several hours while he waits to be picked up for Fjord’s bachelor party. He spends the time as usual: reading and working on various school-related projects.

Around five, he’s deciding between a power nap and a snack when someone honks out front. Definitely Molly’s car. Caleb’s phone pings on his nightstand in confirmation—one message from Molly: _we’re outside!_ _[sparkle emoji]_.

Sure enough, when he steps outside, still pulling his coat on, Molly’s convertible sits stalling on the curb. Molly himself leans halfway out the open window, elbow dangling out while he waves. His hair has been dyed—presumably earlier that day—a vibrant fuchsia, and he wears a flashy outfit to match it. Fjord sits in the backseat, hands in his lap and a black strip of cloth drawn over his eyes. He lifts one hand at Caleb’s approach.

“You didn’t take the minivan?” says Caleb.

Fjord groans. “Molly refused to take the safer option ‘cause it apparently looked less cool, so no.” (Caleb seriously begins to suspect Jester and Molly were separated at birth. If only they looked more alike, he could get somewhere with that.)

Molly clears his throat. “Less talking, more waiting in anticipation. Get in, Caleb, we’re going….” A long pause. Caleb, eyeing Fjord, doesn’t offer any suitable words. “Oh, fuck it, just get in the car.”

Caleb walks around to get into the passenger side. He waves belatedly back at Fjord, then remembers the blindfold and drops his hand back to his side.

On the drive over, Fjord says little except for a few _are we there yet_ s that Caleb thinks are half to piss Molly off. Molly doesn’t even bat an eyelash, continuing to sing along to the radio—the station seems to be playing a suspicious amount of love songs. The ever-present tension in Caleb’s shoulders seeps away. Despite already knowing their destination, he keeps his eyes on the road ahead (more than can be said for their actual driver), and he can’t help but smile when a blinking sign comes into view.

The car rumbles to a stop, and Molly leans forward. “Well, gentlemen—” he throws his arms out, hand almost colliding with Caleb’s nose “—ah, sorry—” He clears his throat and assumes the boisterous voice again. “Here’s to a night of friendship, love, celebration, and, naturally, excess debauchery!”

“I’m going home,” deadpans Caleb, already opening the door.

Caleb hears a click in less than a second, then realizes Molly is holding him back by the shirt collar. How he got his seatbelt off that fast is a mystery best left to time itself. “All of the above is, of course, optional. No debauching unless you want it,” he says, punctuating it with an audible wink.

In the backseat, Fjord knocks his head back. Caleb shakes Molly’s hand off and steps out of the car. He opens the back door, moving to hoist Fjord out—and instantly, he remembers how little strength he has and how large Fjord is and regrets everything. Fjord steadies himself with a meaty palm on Caleb’s shoulder. His nose scrunches, but his expression is otherwise inscrutable. Caleb does what he can to keep his knees from buckling as he walks Fjord toward the building.

Molly’s door slams shut. A moment later, half Fjord’s weight shifts off Caleb and onto him. Though Molly is wearing heels, there are still several inches between him and Fjord, but he leans up on his tiptoes and unties the blindfold. As Fjord shakes himself, Molly stuffs the cloth in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, thank God,” says Fjord. His blinking gaze darts across the horizon—the moment he sees the restaurant’s sign is clear. Molly whips out his phone to take an inadvisable picture of his stunned face. “No.”

“Yes,” says Molly.

“No fuckin’ way.”

Before them stands a lit-up restaurant styled like a barn, its fluorescent star-shaped sign blinking down. _FEBRON’S TEXAS-STYLE BAR AND GRILL_ , it announces _._ The scent of cooking meat hits them, and, as they inch closer, the sound of booming country music joins the sensory journey they’re embarking on tonight.

Face flickering green and blue from the lighting, Fjord snorts and shakes his head. “The hell’d you find this place?”

“Google Maps.” Molly pats Fjord’s arm. “Figured you wouldn’t want to go to a strip club. Never understood that tradition, anyway—”

Fjord cuts Molly off by wrapping an arm around his shoulder and squeezing him tight enough to produce a _crunch_ sound. (Which both of them ignore, so it’s probably fine.) The sight brings a smile to Caleb’s face—both because it’s sweet and because Molly’s slender form next to Fjord’s bulkier one, hoisting him almost an inch off the ground, is just short of hilarious. Fjord glances in Caleb’s direction and grins.

Caleb has seen enough of Jester in the past month that his blood runs cold. “Oy,” he starts, but then he’s dragged into the hug, Fjord’s other arm draped around him. He inhales, cologne and perfume overtaking the barbeque. It isn’t much more favorable. He pats Fjord’s back, the only thing he can think of, and asks under his breath, “Can we go get drunk already?”

“There is food in there, I’m sure,” says Fjord.

“There is.” Molly shakes Fjord’s arm off his shoulders and gives him a light clap on the back before he steps toward the restaurant. It’s fairly impressive how easy he makes walking on uneven gravel in five-inch heels look. “Oh, right, Caleb—like ninety-percent of the menu is meat, and a shitton of that is pork, but they do have some options that’ll be good for you.”

For once, Caleb hadn’t thought that far ahead. He flushes. “Right, thanks.”

Fjord shoots Caleb a look, arched brows and all. Caleb pulls his scarf over his face in response.

The blaring country music only gets worse when they step inside. Caleb winces at the explosion of noise. Even Molly looks uncomfortable. Fjord, on the other hand, looks fucking delighted. Perhaps their downplayed misery will make the night a better experience for him.

Molly clears his throat and, with an almost unnoticeable pat to Caleb’s shoulder, waltzes forward to greet the hostess. They’re escorted to a nice, private table in a matter of minutes—apparently, he’d made reservations. They rearrange the chairs already set up to make it so they can sit in a circle around the table; it takes some doing, but they work it out. As they sit, Caleb notices a shine on Fjord’s face that he doubts is from the lighting.

“Fjord,” he says, “are you crying?”

Fjord sniffs and wipes his eyes. “No,” he says, audibly choked up. My—my love for my friends is leaking outta my eyes.”

“I think his accent got stronger,” says Molly. “We should do some scientific experiments while he’s compromised.”

“Nein, we will do nothing of the sort.”

Molly leans closer, earrings jingling. “Is your accent stronger, too?” he says, and Caleb doesn’t even want to know where this sentence is going. “Because—”

“ _Yours_ certainly ain’t,” says Fjord.

Without looking over at him, Molly flips Fjord off, prompting any well-intentioned parents in the vicinity to slap their hands over their kids’ eyes. It’s luckily too dark in the restaurant for them to see that these are the people they’ve entrusted with their children’s learning. Caleb sighs and hides his face in his menu.

“Leave me alone,” says Molly, very close to a whine. “I don’t mock you when you’re flirting with your fiancée, do I?”

“Actually, yes—”

“Both of you shut up,” says Caleb, studying the menu in hopes of finding something he can actually eat. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Fjord and Molly exchange looks. He glances up from the sides section. “Also, this is the last night she will be his fiancée.”

“Isn’t that the point of tonight?” says Molly. “That, y’know, this is his last night of being a fiancé instead of a husband.”

Caleb considers this. “I don’t know. I am not intimately familiar with the history or purpose of bachelor parties and, uh, I have zero interest to be.”

Molly shrugs, then squints at the state of the table—empty except for their utensils, menus, and waters. He folds his hands together. “Okay, I think we’d all say we need some alcohol right now—”

“Didn’t you drive us here?” says Fjord.

“Irrelevant.”

Caleb leans around the table to tap Fjord’s shoulder. “We can ditch him and walk home.”

Fjord chuckles. Molly retaliates by blowing his straw wrapper at Caleb, who ducks, and then looks warily over his shoulder. He realizes upon seeing the wrapper several feet away that perhaps plausible deniability would’ve been better.

Molly reaches slowly across the table, fingers grazing Fjord’s wrapper. Fjord catches his wrist and says, “Now, now, children….”

“Oh, God, he’s using his teacher voice,” stage whispers Molly.

“Technically, wouldn’t any voice be his teacher voice by default?” says Caleb, unable to help himself. “Since he is a teacher—”

Fjord shoots his straw wrapper at him. Caleb tries to dodge, but he’s too late—it strikes his face with a loud _whump_. Wincing, he snaps his hand up to his cheek. Molly snickers; at Caleb’s offended look, he reaches over and pats the back of Caleb’s hand.

“Want me to kiss it better?” As soon as he says it, Molly’s face goes bright red, but he holds his shiny smile regardless.

Politely and pointedly, Fjord lifts his menu above the level of his eyes. Caleb drops his head onto the table with a groan.

The waiter appears, greeting them with the life-saving words, “Are you folks ready to order?” Caleb has never been so grateful for one person’s presence before.

They brush off their conversation to order—Caleb scrambles to find something and ends up ordering pasta with a side of fries. It contrasts with Fjord’s hearty dinner, which consists of several types and forms of meat, and Molly’s less heavy but still grease-drenched chicken, but Caleb doesn’t care.

Molly also insists on alcohol. Much to the waiter’s amusement, they do nose-goes to determine the unlucky designated driver. Caleb already expects it to be him—he’s still disappointed when both Fjord and Molly snap their fingers onto their noses and then point at him.

While the waiter heads off, Molly’s fingers, perhaps in unnecessary apology, twine with Caleb’s beneath the table. It’s almost instinctive; after a couple beats, his thumb runs in a pattern along Caleb’s forefinger. The gentle rhythm places him firmly in the present as the smell of burning food from the kitchen overtakes the room.

Fjord glances toward Caleb during a lull in conversation, and inspiration flits through his expression. “Hey, uh, how’s Kiri been for you?”

“She’s great,” says Caleb at once. “Very, ah—very respectful, very sweet.” He realizes he’s echoing Jester here, and he can tell Fjord also realizes it from how he grins. “I was not completely sure about having her in the library at first, but it is very nice to have her around now, _ja_.”

“Yeah?” says Fjord, grin widening. “That’s—that’s real good. She really likes being down there, y’know. Says you’re her favorite teacher.”

Despite already knowing the first half of this, Caleb smiles and rubs the side of his neck. He’s been called a favorite by other kids before, but none quite as connected with him as Kiri. He shoves down the biting doubt at the back of his mind. _Not tonight_. “I—I am, uh,” he says, belated, “not a teacher, but—”

“Doesn’t matter to them,” says Molly, fingers tightening on Caleb’s. “Plus, doesn’t that make it all the more special—being someone’s favorite teacher despite not technically being a teacher?”

“I—uh—” Caleb bites his cheek. Fjord nods along with Molly’s words, pride-filled beam crinkling his face, and Caleb can’t not buckle under both of their stares and whoever’s music is playing above them now. Johnny Cash? He decides he doesn’t care about the current dime-a-dozen country singer on the radio, and he mumbles, “Ja, I suppose it does.”

Fjord claps Caleb on the shoulder, sending him into a brief but violent coughing fit. “Fuck yeah it does.”

A beat of uncomfortably sentimental silence. Caleb breaks it with, “I think your accent _has_ gotten stronger.”

“See!” says Molly.

Fjord rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I trust you to be objective—”

They continue with the more pleasant, comfortable conversation up until the waiter brings over a tankard of Southern Comfort (“I’m going all out Tex tonight,” Fjord had declared upon ordering it), a root beer, and a glass of rosé. Molly’s wine is half-empty in one triumphant sip. Caleb, glaring at his friends’ alcoholic drinks, nurses his root beer.

“Sorry, somebody had to be the designated driver,” says Fjord. “You lost.”

“I know,” says Caleb, eyeing the one who actually drove them—in his car, no less—here.

Molly continues draining his drink.

By the time their food arrives, Fjord is crying again. Caleb isn’t sure how it got to this point. One second Fjord had been telling stories about his moms’ ranch and they’d been laughing over how long it had taken Fjord and Jester to set their wedding date; the next Fjord had, still beaming, burst out in tears. Molly attempts to console him—due to his own rather flushed state, he’s not doing a great job of it. Caleb has no idea where to start.

“Is he okay?” asks the waiter, setting down Fjord’s overflowing platter.

Fjord waves him off. “Yeah, I’m—I’m good, just—” He inhales wetly, and Molly offers him a napkin. “No thank you, I can use my own damn napkin. Sorry, I was—I was saying—?”

“You’re good, just…?” says Caleb.

The waiter hovers even after he’s handed over Molly’s chicken. Fjord brightens up at Caleb’s quiet suggestion. “Yeah, yeah, I’m real good. I’m just so fucking happy.” He hiccups and drags a hand across his face. Once he seems satisfied with how it looks—not excellent, given big tears are still rolling—he makes eye contact with the waiter, who looks uncomfortable.

“Right,” says Molly, syllables running together, “I think that’s enough alcohol for Fjord—”

He reaches out and snatches the tankard, which has been topped off for the seventh time, from Fjord’s hand. The waiter seems to take this as his cue and strides off to serve someone less drunk. Fjord continues hiccuping, wiping his eyes and nose—then one hand shoots out to close around Molly’s wrist. Molly holds tighter to the Southern Comfort.

“I’m _so_ happy,” reiterates Fjord, shiny eyes wide. “I mean, I—I’m getting married tomorrow. To the best goddamn woman alive. Can you believe that? I can’t.” He breaks into a goofy grin.

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “How is he this smashed already?”

Molly, still looking a bit dazed, shakes the mug in his grasp. “Must be a deceptive amount of alcohol in here.”

“Tomorrow,” says Fjord again. “That’s—that’s so fuckin’ soon, but it ain’t soon enough at the same time. I wanna—I wanna marry here right now. Right here.”

Awful country music is still, of course, playing over the speakers. It’s another song by a man with the same twangy voice, about the same old narrative involving church, an ex-lover, a dog, a truck, whiskey, and good old patriotism. Caleb has never wanted to smash a radio more.

“No, I think that is the alcohol talking,” he tells Fjord.

“Bad decision, my friend,” says Molly at the same time. His eyes gain a worryingly mischievous glint. “You know what would make this setting even more romantic than it already is?”

“Let’s not find out,” says Caleb.

Eyes still glittering, Molly ignores him. “The recorder cover of ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

“That should be playing at the reception,” blurts Fjord, squeezing Molly’s wrist tighter. “You’ll—you’ll make sure of that, yeah, man of honor? Promise?”

Molly sighs. “Nope, sorry. Much as I’d love to, I can’t promise anything to a drunk man. Especially this drunk man.”

Having learned his lesson about plausible deniability, Caleb shoves a handful of fries into his mouth. Fjord’s lower lip quivers again, and he says, “But Molly—”

“No.”

“Uh, Fjord, what—what is your favorite thing about Jester?” says Caleb, to prevent them from having this back-and-forth all night.

Fjord drops Molly’s hand and snaps his gaze onto Caleb, who regrets every time he’s ever opened his mouth. “I—I can’t just choose one thing. That’s like asking—asking—” His face twists. He seems unable to come up with a proper simile, and Caleb refrains from suggesting one. “All right, I can’t fuckin’ think of anything that compares to her, but everything about her is my favorite.”

“Aw,” say Caleb and Molly in unison, one deadpan but touched and the other suitably dramatic.

“I—I love her so fucking much,” continues Fjord, like he hadn’t been interrupted. He rubs his face with his napkin, which is now less of a piece of paper and more of a soggy rag. “And tomorrow I’m gonna be her husband. Finally.”

“Indeed,” says Molly, lifting his almost-empty wine and looking relieved Fjord’s tears are dwindling. “Let’s have a quick toast—to Fjord and Jester!”

Fjord tries to take his Southern Comfort back, but Molly slides it over to Caleb. Caleb doesn’t want to play hot potato with a tankard of liqueur—he also, however, doesn’t want to deal with an even drunker Fjord, so he sighs and holds it just out of reach. Grumbling, Fjord raises his water to toast with instead. Caleb bitterly raises his root beer.

“To Fjord and Jester,” he says.

“To me and Jes,” says Fjord, eyes welling up again.

The other people in the restaurant must hate them by the time they leave, a good hour and a half later. That’s mostly on Fjord, who wouldn’t have been able to speed through his meal even while not drunk or crying. The waiter for sure hates them. He seems to make it a point not to stop by the table again until he has to bring them their check. Caleb tips almost as much as the original bill itself.

Outside, Fjord takes one step, then sways and pukes onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing Caleb’s boots.

“Well,” starts Molly, as Fjord straightens up and wipes his mouth, “look on the bright side—”

“There ain’t no bright side,” says Fjord darkly.

“Au contraire. It wasn’t on my upholstery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caleb's views on mamma mia! do not represent the author's. molly's, on the other hand, absolutely do. i can't find the tweet about apollo being the fourth dad so i might have fever-dreamed it tbh, but it singlehandedly revolutionized the way i see the mmcu (mamma mia cinematic universe) and the entire world
> 
> anyway, thank you so much for reading! see you friday!!
> 
> translation:  
> \+ Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat: May the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	14. part iii, chapter iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fjord and Jester get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say this time -- this chapter is one of my favorites tbh, i really like how it turned out! enjoy!

On Thursday, Caleb wakes and doesn’t recall any pressing duties or the events of the previous night. It’s a blissfully ignorant few seconds as he floats into consciousness, blinking the cotton away from the corners of his mind and starting to roll over—

Then his sleep-induced daze snaps, and he remembers he’d been so tired after Fjord’s bachelor party and having to drive both Fjord and Molly home that he’d crashed on the couch. He freezes mid-turn, now aware he’s about to fall off the couch, and hurries to right himself. A blanket sits over him. Had he grabbed one? He doubts it, and the sounds of activity in the kitchen further suggest he hadn’t.

In retrospect, Caleb is grateful for being forced to be the designated driver. His head is as clear and painless as it can be in the five minutes after one wakes up—always a relief. He’s less grateful for the kink in his neck, though. He supposes he deserves that one for having used the armrest as a pillow.

A pair of beady eyes bore into him. Wincing, Caleb turns to face the floor—Frumpkin sits there, staring at him the way hungry animals are wont to do. Oh, right, he’d put the cat food out of Nott’s reach. He would’ve thought she’d’ve found some way to scale the counter by now, since she’s had free reign over the apartment for however long she’d been back.

Caleb sits up. Bleary-eyed, he shakes off the head rush. He nudges Frumpkin out of the way so he has room to stand and peels himself up off the couch. An undeterred Frumpkin trots after him, right at his heels, as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

He’s wholly unsurprised to see Nott bent over the counter, though he’s disappointed in some form to see her smacking the coffee machine and hissing, “Work, _work_ , you damned—!”

Caleb clears his throat.

Nott almost trips with how quick she backs up. She giggles nervously, pats the table behind her, and flashes him a winning smile. It doesn’t work as well on her as it does other people. “Good morning!”

“Is it really?” He can’t help but note her clothes—underneath a fur jacket he thinks is Yasha’s based on its size alone, there’s a hint of a shiny and pale teal material. “Also, when did you take Yasha’s coat?”

Nott shuffles her feet. “It’s a little after nine, so yeah, for the _morning_ part at least. And—and I didn’t take it, she gave it to me. Willingly. If I’d taken something from her, you’d know.” She shudders, rubbing her arms for effect.

“It is a few hours too early to be dressed up, then,” says Caleb, deciding to pick his battles and ask Yasha about the coat later.

As he steps further into the kitchen, inspecting his coffee machine for Nott-inflicted damage, Nott picks at her halter neck. From a distance, the dress is pretty, but not particularly noticeable. Up close, all its details—including the silver floral embroidery, the silver bow decorating the silk belt, and the way the sunlight catches the teal fabric—come into clarity. It’s fancier than anything Nott’s ever worn (that Caleb can recall).

“I got nervous, okay? And I wanted to see if it—if it felt weird,” says Nott. “‘Cause it felt okay when we got sized last month, but—”

“Ja, okay.” Caleb thinks about the pristine suit still encased in plastic in the deep reaches of his closet. He shudders. “Does it feel weird now?”

Nott frowns, thinking for a moment. Her hand twitches toward the coffee machine again, but with a sharp look from Caleb, it falls back. “It still feels good, I think.”

“That’s good,” says Caleb. He’s interrupted from saying anything more by a furry head bumping against his ankle. He clears his throat, pats Nott’s head, and turns back around. “Do not break my coffee machine any more than you already have while my back is turned, please, Schwesterherz.”

“I won’t, I won’t!”

There are some rather suspicious noises, but Caleb turns back around while Frumpkin buries his face in the food bowl and finds Nott sitting innocently at the table. The coffee machine hums behind her. With a huff, Caleb elbows her in the side as he passes back around to find something to eat.

Come three hours, a more alert Caleb is struggling with his tie when the doorbell rings. “Nott, please get that,” he calls, attempting a different knot style. He’s sure he knew how to do this once.

He folds one side over the other and frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror, looking askew of Nott’s motivational sticky notes for once. That doesn’t look right. His scowl deepens as he flips back the tie. It hangs loosely on either side of his neck. Model photographs always make it look so easy, he thinks.

“It’s Molly!” yells Nott.

“I am sure he can announce his own presence,” says Caleb, halfway between a normal voice and a shout.

He hears Nott grumble something—whether to herself or him or Molly, he doesn’t know. He’s not sure he cares at the moment either. Weighing a side of the shimmering silver tie in each hand, Caleb sighs and tries again, sure he’s going in circles at this point.

As he reaches for his phone to resort to a wikiHow article, there’s a knock on the bathroom door. Too gentle to be Nott. Caleb hesitates for a fraction of a second, then drops his tie again and opens the door. As soon as he does, he freezes.

There stands Molly, of course, ring-adorned hands clasped at his waist. One thing is at once obvious: he’s foregone the cobalt and silver suit Caleb himself stands in, perhaps because of his technical status as person of honor; or perhaps just _because_. Whatever the case, he wears a sapphire variant of Nott’s dress. It poofs out at the waist and grazes his knees the same, but the silver details are styled in small space-themed patterns rather than floral designs. A forget-me-not sits behind one ear, contrasting his fuchsia hair (loose and slicked back itself).

And who could forget the heels? They’re the same pair as he’d worn the night before—glittery, dark blue, boosting him several inches. His face is distinctively made up as well: blue lipstick, silver eyeshadow, and what seems to be glitter around the corners of his eyes.

“Hello,” says Caleb, belated.

Molly’s smile widens. “Hello,” he says, just as quiet. “Gotta say, you look wonderful, darling—I ever mention my thing for people in uniform?”

He steps forward and reaches out to toy with the blue rose pinned to Caleb’s lapel. Caleb cough-laughs and says, “No, I—I do not believe you have. You, ah. You look….”

And he stops; he can’t come up with a suitable adjective. A number run through his head, but none of them capture how nice Molly looks. For once, Caleb decides to let actions speak louder and leans forward, hand leaping up to graze Molly’s jaw, to kiss him. It seems to suffice, with how Molly’s other hand comes up to clutch loosely at his other lapel.

They’re interrupted by a cough from the hallway. Molly steps back and smooths down his unwrinkled gown. Caleb’s face warms—he’s reminded unfortunately of the undone tie around his neck and the shrinking time window they have to get to the lake. Her own face pink, Nott clears her throat and tugs at the frayed jacket (hers this time) she’s pulled over her dress.

“Jester texted,” she tells them, holding up her phone. “She wants to know where we are.”

“I would imagine it was much more forceful than that,” says Caleb, sure he could check his phone and find out but not wanting to.

“And with more exclamation points and emojis,” says Molly.

“Yeah,” says Nott. She narrows her eyes at Caleb’s tie. “You—I never learned how to do that, so Molly, help him while I get the car started. And no canoodling!”

Molly mock salutes as Nott scurries back down the hall. Caleb isn’t sure he trusts her alone in his car right now, but it isn’t like he can do anything about it now, so he turns back to Molly.

“Do you, er, know how to—”

“Yep,” says Molly, worryingly quick.

Without pausing, he steps forward again, nimble fingers coming up to hold either side of the tie. He drapes one side across the other and pulls it through the loop he’s created—and again, and again. In a few seconds, Caleb’s tie is neatly knotted and lying atop his chest. Molly’s nails linger on the silk. Caleb, blinking, reaches up and plucks his hand off, patting his knuckles before he lets go.

“No canoodling, Mx. Mollymauk,” he reminds him, and then he walks away.

After Caleb kicks Nott out of the driver’s seat she’d sneaked herself into, the drive over is quiet and comfortable, undercurrented with an expected amount of nerves. They arrive exactly on time. From the parking lot, Caleb catches a glimpse of the rows of plastic chairs leading up to the lake and its dock. He can’t see any specific figures until they pass a floral arch—there, he can make out the backs of most of their co-workers.

 _WEDDING PARTY GO THIS WAY,_ says a paper sign on one side of the arch. They follow the blue-ink arrow to a sprawling grass clearing a couple feet away, where Caleb almost runs straight into a pacing Beau.

“Hey, watch out, machi,” she says dryly. Caleb eschews an apology (he wouldn’t mean it, anyway) and lifts his head.

Beau has, like Molly, opted out of the traditional wedding garb—instead of a dress, she wears a glossy teal and silver suit. She leans against a nearby picnic table, one of several in the area. Her hair is in a messy topknot as usual, but with a rose pin instead of a ribbon or loose tie holding it up. In one hand is a sparkly ring box. Behind Beau hover Yasha, who is wearing a matching suit and has her hair done in a more complicated set of braids than usual, and another pale woman Caleb assumes to be Calianna, who’s wearing a dress near identical to Nott’s.

With a scoff, Beau tilts her head at Caleb. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“I have not seen you in formalwear before,” he tells her, raising an eyebrow. Unless one counted their graduation ceremony, which he didn’t in the least; she, like him, had worn a hoodie and sweatpants under the gown. “You clean up nicely.”

Yasha strides closer, one arm falling lazily around Beau’s shoulders. Beau leans back into her torso. “She does, doesn’t she? Though she looks nice all of the time,” she adds, and a grinning Beau gets on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek.

“You look rather nice too, Yasha dear.” Molly, stepping forward, appears to revel in the three sets of eyes immediately drawn to him. “Ah, that’s the sort of reaction I was hoping for. Just wait till the other guests see me,” he adds, elbowing Caleb in the side.

“Ja, I am sure several fistfights for your hand will break out,” deadpans Caleb. Yasha laughs quietly. “Oh wait, it is the twenty-first century.”

Beau snorts. “You’re one to talk, librarian.” She frowns and drops her gaze to the ground, mouthing _librarian_ several more times. Caleb is about to ask what’s happening when she adds, “Li-bruh-rian. Shit, now that sounds cool.”

“Reading is cool,” says Caleb with no hint of irony.

Beau rolls her eyes, hard. Molly, elbow still brushing Caleb’s side, says, “Careful, unpleasant one, they’ll get stuck.”

Before their ribbing can continue or a bemused Calianna can cut in, Nott—who hasn’t moved since they walked over here—jabs her index finger at Yasha. “Did you get taller?” she demands.

A snicker from Beau, a snort from Molly, and a thinly-veiled giggle from Calianna. Yasha blinks and says, “I think that would be the heels.”

“Oh,” says Nott, processing that. She glares down at her flats—they match Yasha’s silver pair of heels in color and basic shape, but they do nothing to help her stature.

“They did offer you heels, y’know,” says Beau.

“I’ve never worn them before! I didn’t wanna trip going down the aisle!”

“I can lend you a pair sometime,” suggests Molly. “And, uh, teach you how to walk in them. It’s not as hard as it looks.”

Caleb can see Nott’s opinion of him improving in the span of a single second. Off to the side, Calianna clears her throat, and their gazes flicker to her. Pink-faced, she picks a basket of flowers off the picnic table, bright green eyes flickering between them, and walks over to give it to Nott. Then she slips a ring box matching Beau’s out of her dress’ pocket and hands it to Molly.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever this is,” she says in a high, accented voice, “but I think it’s starting soon, so we should—”

She’s got an uncanny sense of time, because a moment later, “Time After Time” starts playing on a tinny set of speakers. Beau regretfully shrugs Yasha’s arm off and taps Molly’s shoulder. “That’s our cue.”

“I know, I know,” says Molly, rolling his eyes, and then he makes a _can you believe this?_ sort of face at Caleb. “I’ll have to commend them on their song choice later.”

“I think Jester picked it,” says Nott.

Caleb considers last night. “I wouldn’t put it past Fjord, actually.”

He and the others trail a few feet behind as Beau and Molly, both cringing, link their arms together. On the stretch of grass and sand leading up to the dock, a silver rug sprawls between the aisles of chairs. A sunglasses-wearing Shakäste stands under another arch set up on the dock, holding his cane in one hand and a book in the other. The chairs’ occupants—all standing now—look expectantly toward the steps Beau and Molly are descending. (While standing as far apart as possible.)

As soon as Beau and Molly reach the end of the rug, they break apart and step to opposite sides of the aisle. They face the dock but turn their heads back toward the stairs.

And, on cue, Yasha takes Caleb’s arm. He lets her guide them more than the other way around. He’s well aware that he stares at his feet the whole time; he can’t think of anything else to do with the crowd staring at him, though. It isn’t like Yasha of all people will say something. Plus—given that the entire staff of Zadash Grade School seems to be here—it’s mostly people he already knows and doesn’t care about upholding societal norms around.

“You all right?” asks Yasha under her breath, right before they part.

With a short nod, Caleb drops her arm and steps over to join Molly, who subtly takes his hand. He lifts his head to smile and turns to watch Calianna come down the aisle on her own. She beams, nervousness still there but downplayed, and takes advantage of not holding anyone’s arm to wave at a few seemingly familiar faces. In the blink of an eye, she’s standing with Beau and Yasha.

Next comes Nott. Though a few do double takes at the sight of an adult flower girl, she seems happy enough spreading flowers—scatterings of purple, pink, and blue—around the aisle. She freezes for a moment at the dock. Noting the asymmetry, Caleb gestures her over to him and Molly, and she does a little curtsy before she walks over.

“Glad you didn’t wear heels?” whispers Molly, beneath the audience’s polite applause. Nott shoots him a dagger-eyed look that implies she’d be flipping him off in less polite company.

Caleb’s heart hammers against his chest—he knows his hand is clamming up, but he can’t bring himself to let go now. Christ, he thinks, it isn’t even _his_ wedding.

He refocuses on the steps as the first chorus of the song wraps up. There, Fjord—one of his mothers on each side, arms linked through his—rounds the corner and takes a deep breath. He squeezes his parents’ arms and looks toward the dock. His eyes catch Caleb’s. In an attempt to be reassuring, Caleb flashes him a thumbs-up.

Fjord grins, teeth and all. He starts slowly down the steps. It seems he’s gotten his white-streaked hair to lie flat for once—it sits, slick, against his scalp. His deep sea blue suit glints as he walks, silver details glimmering like scales in the soft midday lighting. Both his moms are decked out in matching silvery outfits that shimmer as they move toward the dock.

As they approach, the mother on his right side releases Fjord’s arm. With a quick murmur Caleb can’t make out, his other mom releases his left, and they drift toward the two empty seats at the front of the right row of chairs. Fjord, inhaling, continues walking. “Y’all look great,” he whispers to Caleb, Molly, and Nott, and then he continues onto the dock to take his place before Shakäste.

A seemingly eternal moment of stillness passes—and then, as the second chorus of “Time After Time” picks up, out walk Jester and her mother.

Jester looks, simply put, stunning. Her dark hair is twisted up into twin buns on either side of her head, the silver ribbons holding them up brushing her cheeks. Behind her shiny bangs rests a circlet lined with lavender roses. A deep blue gown—strapless and layered—flows past her knees, its silver-sequined skirt bouncing with each step forward. Silver necklaces dangle around her neck and seem to glow in the sunlight.

Her hands rest at her sides; her elegant, ruby-draped mom’s arm is wrapped tight around one of her elbows. As Jester walks, slow in her shiny silver pumps that boost her up to the same height as her mother, her face crinkles with her starry-eyed smile. Fjord’s gentle smile reflects hers.

Once Jester reaches the dock, intertwining her hands with Fjord’s, the speakers fade out. The area is silent but for the quiet running of the lake and the slow, methodical turn of everyone facing the dock. Everyone stands stiff and unmoving then—like a paused frame in a movie. Caleb’s very breath sits still in his throat.

Then Shakäste clears his throat and says, “You may be seated,” and it shatters. Rows of people sit in unison. All eyes settle expectantly ahead. Shakäste’s fingers run across the page of his book. “Friends and family, we are gathered here today….”

His smooth words wash over the crowd, enrapturing each and every person. First comes a brief introduction, talking about Fjord and Jester and their histories, separate and together; then a poem recital (an excerpt from _Venus and Adonis_ ); then he passes the floor to Fjord and Jester for their vows. Fjord straightens up as if breaking from a trance. Jester squeezes his hands, her smile ever-softening.

“Fjord,” says Jester, “today I take you to be my husband. I—” She licks her lips. “I promise to be there for you, to be your partner-in-crime through thick and thin.” A tiny giggle, however meager the innuendo is. “I hope to share all of the adventures and explorations across the rest of my life with you. All of the dirty things too, of course,” she adds with a wink, drawing a choke from Fjord and a murmur of surprised laughter from the crowd. Then Jester’s face sobers. “But most of all, I want to cherish and support you as my best friend and the love of my life.”

It takes Fjord a moment, his shaking hands visible from here, but after a wet cough, he says, “Jester, today I take you—the best woman I’ve ever known—” she grins at that “—to be my wife. I commit myself to you—to have and to hold, to love and to honor, to respect and to grow with. In good times and bad, in sickness and health, all of it.” He pauses for a beat. “All the adventures we’ll go through together. I pledge my love to you, and to be your best friend and companion through the rest of our lives.”

They’re good vows. Caleb lets them sink in as he watches Fjord and Jester squeeze each other’s hands. His own grip on Molly’s hand tightens, subconscious.

“Jester,” says Shakäste while the two gaze sweetly into each other’s eyes, “do you—”

“I do,” says Jester.

Shakäste blinks, as taken aback as everyone in the crowd, but then he chuckles. “Fjord—”

“I do,” says Fjord, hardly one to be outdone.

Shakäste nods and flips to the next page. He beckons Beau and Molly, whose hand drops from Caleb’s, forward. They walk steadily to Jester and Fjord’s respective sides, each slipping out a ring box.

“With these rings,” says Shakäste, “you symbolize your love—it grew from curious, humble beginnings; from nothing to something beautiful.” He leans back, toying with the handle of his cane. Fjord and Jester take their rings, and their hands hover above each other’s. “Fjord, place the ring on Jester’s finger and repeat after me—”

In a few more beats, Fjord and Jester’s hands are clasped once more, brand new silver bands sparkling on each. Their words—“As this ring has no end, neither does my love for you”—echo around them, cheesy but succinct. Something like finality hangs in the air. Another stretch of silence, briefer than the other.

Shakäste’s smile widens, and he shuts his book. “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” he says brightly. “You may now—”

Again, Jester moves before Shakäste finishes talking—with a gleam in her eyes, she dips Fjord and kisses him hard on the mouth. The crowd leaps to their feet as one, Shakäste’s voice drowned out by cheering and applause and plenty of wolf-whistling. Fjord’s arms wrap around Jester’s neck as he laughs against her. It’s a peaceful, joyous scene, and surprisingly one Caleb doesn’t feel like a stranger in. He reaches down to lay a hand on Nott’s shoulder—she faces him, beaming.

When they break apart, Jester hauls Fjord upright, and they turn to face the crowd, hands clasped at their sides. They bow as one.

“Reception’s in an hour hope to see you there!” rushes out Jester in one breath, and then she hoists a still-blinking Fjord into her arms and sweeps down the aisle.

Yasha nods in approval.

+

As it turns out, a limo is waiting for the wedding party in the parking lot, courtesy of Jester’s mother. Before Caleb even notices it’s a vehicle (let alone a limousine), he notices the color—he’s not sure how someone couldn’t. Everyone except Jester stands, speechless, for several seconds before it as Jester wiggles her fingers.

Molly is the first to break the silence. “I wasn’t aware that shade of pink existed.”

“It was painted with the pinkest pink in existence,” says Jester, beaming. “Hop in, Mom hired a chauffeur.”

“Of course she did,” mutters Beau.

“Fucking rich people,” adds Caleb.

Calianna clears her throat. “Thank Mrs. Lavorre for us, Jester,” she says, and Jester is quick to nod.

The limo’s interior is more comfortable than it would appear—its seats are also pink, though not as bright as the exterior. Being rented by Jester and her mother, screens dot the walls and a karaoke machine sits in one corner, with a bucket of drinks under it.

A twenty-minute karaoke-filled drive ensues, in which Caleb’s distaste toward several songs deepens and his respect of Calianna (who turns down Jester’s invitation to sing with her, though that’s probably more of a testament to her own anxiety) strengthens. Molly coaxes Yasha into dueting “Take On Me,” but Jester refuses to be outdone. She drags Beau, Yasha, and—somehow—Nott into a blues-esque “Call Me Maybe” cover and leaves everyone else in the car, including the chauffeur, speechless for the rest of the drive.

If Caleb had thought the limo was the fanciest thing he’d see for the rest of his lifetime, he’s proven very wrong at the banquet hall.

It’s perhaps all the more daunting for being one of several in the facility. In the lobby, the owner guides them off to a side room, and as soon as they walk in, Nott grabs Caleb’s leg.

“Nott, Mäuschen—”

“I’m going to fall over,” says Nott, high and trembling.

Well, that’s a reasonable excuse. Though Fjord and Jester have already parted from the group to rearrange various parts of the room, Caleb spends the next several minutes just looking around—after Nott lets go of him and leans on a nearby table instead, anyway.

The ceiling is high— _very_ high—and includes a circular skylight. The walls are a pale yellow, scattered with fairy lights and posters of various sizes and themes. (No doubt Jester’s doing.) Scattered around the floor, arranged in a non-linear pattern along the walls, are a number of round tables draped in blue. Caleb steps over to one to see place cards aligned with the foldable chairs. A buffet setup, complete with a tall row of cupcakes (the top one features a custom topper, which depicts a chubby woman with blue hair hefting a lean man into a bridal carry), rests against a cutting off a good quarter of the room. Beside it, a sound system has been set up.

And then there’s the dance floor. Baby blue square tiles take up most of the room’s center—the others have already flocked over to it, to stand on it if nothing else.

“This is the fanciest place I have ever set foot in,” says Caleb, slow, when he can speak again.

The acoustics are also something, he finds; from across the room, Jester says, voice echoing, “It’s not really _that_ fancy—”

“Jester, there are chandeliers. Plural.”

Jester waves her hand and turns back to discussing something with Fjord. Caleb glances away in time to notice Nott’s hand creeping toward a sparkling flower vase atop the table she’d been leaning against. Before he can haul her back, Molly does.

“Don’t think anyone here is grumpy today,” he says, smiling. “Here, why don’t we go see if Fjord and Jester need anything—”

“Fine, fine,” grumbles Nott, going along with him with no further protest. Her hands twitch at her sides.

Caleb makes an _I’m watching you_ gesture at her back. She doesn’t seem to notice, but judging from Molly’s snicker, he does. As Caleb glances back around, he realizes someone else is looking at him.

Calianna flushes when Caleb’s eyes meet her searching ones. She bites her lip, looking around to see everyone else in the room is already engaged in conversation—Molly and Nott with Fjord and Jester, Beau and Yasha with each other. She pats down her dress, which Caleb notes has more frills than Nott’s, and strolls over.

“Sorry,” she says, toying with a bright silver charm bracelet. “I like people watching, and—and I haven’t really been around, well, other people in a while. New people, at least.”

Caleb scratches the side of his neck. “I can—I can understand that. You are around Jester a lot, ja?”

Her face drops, brief, but in a blink, her smile is back. “Not in a while, to be honest. We’ve been in touch—pen pals—since we went off to college and decided we couldn’t do the long distance thing, but we aren’t as close as we were once. I live closer now, so we’ve been trying to reconnect, though!” She perks up, hands still wringing at her waist. “Ah, I—I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself to you all, so I’ll do it now. I’m Calianna, but you can call me Cali.”

“Calianna,” says Caleb with a stiff nod, and her unnervingly bright smile falters again. He clears his throat. “Caleb Widogast. We—we have met.”

Calianna’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“You substitute at school sometimes, so.” They’d never had any real direct contact, so it’s inaccurate to say they’d _met_ , but Caleb doesn’t know any other word for it. “You—you covered for me once, I believe, in October.”

“Oh! Of course! You’re the librarian!” Calianna’s smile goes wobbly. “Well, it’s good to see you again then, Mr. Caleb.”

Caleb’s brain shuts down for a moment—he coughs into his fist, feeling his face redden. “You, uh, you really do not have to—” But Calianna peers at him with an expectant gaze, and for being able to turn down Jester’s request, she’s _very_ good at mimicking the puppy eyes that had accompanied it. Maybe it’s not even on purpose. Caleb sighs and musters a thin smile to match hers. “You as well.”

Calianna glances around, clearly searching for another topic to bring up. Her eyes catch on Nott. “The girl over there, er—the cute short one with the green hair, Nott. She’s your sister, right?”

He’s about to ask how she knows Nott’s name, then he remembers the sleepover and nods. “She, uh—she is, ja.”

“She seems nice,” says Calianna. “You’re lucky to have a good family.” It seems like there’s something more there, but she cuts herself off with a frown.

Various questions pop up in Caleb’s head. He brushes them off—best keep things pleasant until the other guests arrive, and he can understand not wanting to mention certain things, anyway. “Well, she is all the family I have left,” he says, making it so even a stranger could hear the underlying affection despite his literal words, “so I will settle for her, I suppose.”

“Ah—” Calianna freezes, face red. “I—I’m so sorry, I—”

“It is fine,” says Caleb, lifting a hand. “I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. Calianna, chewing her lip, watches him in silence. “I would not like to dwell on that today.”

Calianna nods. “I understand, Mr. Caleb. I apologize for bringing up bad memories.”

“They would have come up regardless of if you said anything.” Caleb studies his shoes—he realizes part of his statement had been incorrect, and he huffs before he lowers his voice. (He’d never hear the end of it from Jester.) “I said she is all the family I have left, but that is not quite true. This—these folk are family enough, I think—odd as they may all be, I care for them all a great deal,” he says, gesturing to the room at large, and Calianna beams.

“Families are made, not born,” she says with a sage nod.

Before they can continue their exchange (and Caleb is surprised to find he kind of wants to), Jester swings past and grabs Calianna’s arm. Calianna waves a startled goodbye to Caleb as she’s dragged off.

Blinking, Caleb glances around the room again—nearby, Fjord is talking to Beau and Yasha about forgoing the receiving line. Nott has also been wrangled into Jester and Calianna’s conversation. Caleb can’t hear them from here, so he can only guess about what put that expression on Nott’s face. There’s one conspicuous absence from the room—

A throat clearing announces Molly’s presence, replacing Calianna’s, and Caleb startles and turns. Molly’s mouth quirks, like he’s thinking of an inside joke. His jewelry catches the soft light from the skylight. For a moment, Caleb is caught the same way he had been an hour ago—not in a way shocked out of him, but rather in contemplation.

Molly’s grin widens. “Mr. Caleb.”

Just like that, the moment is gone. Caleb groans and drops his reddening face into his hands. “Please.”

“I can’t believe she stole my nickname.” Molly scoffs, mock offended, and flattens a hand over his heart. “She’s very polite and very, hm, complimentary, but I may have to have a vendetta against her now.”

Caleb snorts, lifting his head to stare firmly at the opposite wall. “Do not worry, you’re still my favorite,” he says, and Molly smiles and kisses his cheek.

They have another fifteen minutes or so of last-minute arrangements and chatter before the guests pour in. Once everyone is seated, which takes a while, the toasts begin.

Molly and Beau give a joint one from separate tables—scripted or not, no one seems to know. It’s filled with as much insult-slinging at each other as it is simultaneous approval and joking of and about Fjord and Jester. Then come the family toasts—Fjord’s adoptive moms and siblings offer encouraging but brief words, with a dash of embarrassing stories of his youth. Jester’s mother gives the exact type of speech Caleb would expect out of the person who raised Jester.

“Love you, Mom!” shouts Jester over the toast of _to Jester and Fjord!_ Her mother smiles into her deep burgundy wine.

“You should say something,” Nott hisses to Caleb.

It isn’t quiet at all, so Molly—also seated at their table—turns to Caleb and raises his eyebrows. Caleb sighs and stands. Everyone in the room who knows him adopts a look of disbelief.

“Jester, Fjord,” he says, accent thicker from the last several drinks, “you have been engaged longer than nearly everyone in this room has known you.” Stunned laughter. “I am—I am pleased I could be here for you tying the knot, and I wish you the best. To Fjord and Jester.”

His words hover a moment in all their ad-libbed, liquid courage-inspired glory; with how rushed they are, he’s not sure anyone processes them for several seconds. His anxiety seems to remember its place in his chest, and his pulse roars in his ears as regret seeps in. Then there’s a whoop and an echoed shout of, “To Fjord and Jester!”

Caleb sinks back into his seat. Nott is almost bouncing with delight. Molly squeezes his shoulder and grins in concurrent apology and encouragement, muttering, “Excellent job, excellent job.”

For the next thirty minutes, conversation and drinks and snacks are shared as everyone mingles. Five minutes in, there seems to be an unspoken agreement that the place cards are to be ignored—it’s perhaps prompted by the bride herself plopping down at Beau, Yasha, and Calianna’s table. Then, by the sound system, someone coughs.

“We’re gonna have the first dance of the evening now,” says a familiar drawl. Caleb lifts his head to see Pumat standing behind the setup, reaching out to tap something on the laptop. He can’t quite comprehend how Pumat made it across the room unnoticed. “So if the bride and groom could come out to the dance floor—”

Fjord and Jester, at different tables by now, get up and make their way to it. With a smirk, Jester bends and says, addressing the lit-up blue tiles, “I’m bi and trans!”

“I’m also bi,” says Fjord, stifling a laugh.

Beau and Molly snort in unison. Behind the sound system, Pumat laughs in that deep way of his and says, “My bad, my bad. Head out to the dance floor.”

Fjord offers his arm to Jester—beaming, she takes it. A Carly Rae Jepsen song fades in as they float out to the dead center of the room. The lights dim. Pumat leans his elbows on the nearest speaker, looking on with a smile.

When the dance begins, it’s slow, languid, even casual. Fjord’s hands link with Jester’s. They face one another, swaying calmly back and forth, Jester’s skirt twirling around her with each little motion. Caleb feels himself mimicking their gentle smiles as he watches.

Then the music picks up, growing louder and quicker. Jester hefts her and Fjord’s arms up; they shift into a faster waltz. They sidestep and skirt around each other, feet cutting back and forth in rhythmic waves. It’s enthralling and natural—Fjord’s steps are careful yet broad, Jester’s confident and boisterous as ever. The song settles again, and they slow down to match it, but they’re soon moving swiftly again—and they repeat the cycle again and again, ignorant to the dozens of eyes following them.

Seeming both like a few seconds and hours later, they come to a step as the upbeat tempo fades out. Jester has switched their positions to be able to dip Fjord, one hand supporting his back and the other swung out behind her. Fjord’s arms hang loose and triumphant beneath him. He beams up, face glowing with sweat and a blush.

Applause and wolf whistles break out. Fjord and Jester stand and bow, reveling in the crowd’s reaction but more so in each other.

Any remaining stiffness in the room isn’t just loosened but torn to shreds. A mother-daughter dance follows; Jester and her mother put on a damn show, beginning as a waltz and soon morphing into something Caleb hesitates to even categorize. Then comes the mother-son dance, in which Fjord spins awkwardly with both his mothers at once, tugging them close to have quiet exchanges.

After that, Pumat opens the dance floor to “any lovers out there,” making his own way off the stage to head toward a table too far for Caleb to make out the person Pumat offers his hand to. Next to Caleb, Molly’s chair scoots out. When he looks up to see Molly’s hand outstretched, he takes it without hesitation.

He recalls their clumsier dance in September—had it really only been a few months? It feels like decades ago now. Molly’s arm settles around his neck and his around Molly’s waist, free hands clasped in midair. Caleb manages not to almost step on Molly’s feet this time around, maybe less nervous and so able to activate muscle memories he’d forgotten in his panic last time. The situation is awfully nostalgic, except—

“If only ABBA were playing,” mutters Caleb, and it startles a laugh out of Molly.

“If only,” he agrees, then he tilts his head and hums along to what _is_ playing. “CRJ is well and good, though, yeah?”

Caleb doesn’t have an answer to that, so he focuses on the dance. He spots Beau and Yasha nearby—Yasha leads ungracefully, Beau follows just as ungracefully. A match made in heaven. Midway through his and Molly’s waltz, ABBA _does_ start playing in some form of divine intervention; it’s “Waterloo,” not “Take A Chance On Me,” but it makes them both snicker. Molly leans down to kiss his forehead as the song ends, and Caleb ends up walking straight into Jester when they break apart.

Being Jester, her first response is to beg a dance out of him. Caleb is buzzed enough to agree. Over his shoulder, he sees Nott has taken his place with Molly, though she has to stand on his toes to really be able to dance with him. He snorts and takes Jester’s hands, letting her make him twirl her around to the inexplicable background noise of “…Baby One More Time.”

As soon as the song ends, it sinks in how tired Caleb is and that he’d like to sit down now, please. Before he can scurry away, Jester squeezes his hands, holding him in place. “You’re surprisingly good, you know!”

“Thank you?” he says, bemused, but she’s already twirled off to seize another unsuspecting partner (Calianna, it looks like).

Caleb loosens his tie—his face is too warm to have it this tight—and looks for a place to sit, ending up sinking into the first empty chair he finds. It isn’t his; that, he’s sure of. It will do for now. At the same table is Yasha, drinking her wine with a curly straw. He nods, and she nods back. They sit there in companionable silence until Fjord and Jester hand out their wedding cupcakes. That signifies the wrapping up of the reception, and despite himself and the genuine fun he’s had, Caleb sags with relief.

Minus Fjord and Jester, they’re driven back home by limo—according to the chauffeur, the wedding party members’ cars in the lake parking lot (which is to say, Caleb’s Beetle and Yasha’s Subaru) have been towed home for them. The drive is much more somber than that over, due mainly to everyone’s exhaustion. Within two minutes, Nott falls asleep on Caleb’s shoulder, drooling down his suit sleeve, and Beau doesn’t seem to be much further off. She settles across the seats on her side, head dropping into Yasha’s lap. Yasha runs her hands through Beau’s hair.

“Fun night,” says Molly, feet slung across Caleb’s lap, when no one speaks.

A general murmur of agreement. Then a snore from Nott, which could mean anything. Calianna, curled up in the corner with her knees against her chest, yawns. None of them are practicing car safety particularly well, notes Caleb somewhere in his rational brain, but the sleepier part and the part still losing it over the limo take over. His head droops onto Molly’s shoulder. Absent, Molly’s arm falls around his shoulders.

“Aww,” says Beau, possibly sarcastic, but Caleb is too busy dozing off to retort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! see you tuesday!! getting close to the end now... :pensive:
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	15. part iii, chapter v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a seder is held, time goes by, and a bookstore is defiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penultimate chapter!!! wrow!!! not much to say about this one either honestly, uhhh enjoy! (it's up a little early again because i have... A Lot to do tonight since school starts tomorrow, though i've finished editing chapter 16 so that's off my shoulders at least)

The first night of Passover, Caleb is restless.

This would be normal if not for the extent of his restlessness. Since Molly’s arrival (with an appreciated bottle of kosher-for-Passover wine) this afternoon, he’s busied himself with final preparations. Setting the table and finding the electric candles, both for Passover and Shabbat, is easy enough. From there, though, he struggles to find things to do.

He’s already gotten rid of all the leavened food (almost two weeks ago, in fact, since he didn’t want to have to sell leftovers), so there’s nothing to do on that front. He could read the Haggadah in his sleep at this point. Which leaves him to clean various areas of the house and tweak something on the kitchen table every time he passes.

Around thirty minutes from sunset, Molly says from the couch, “I’m sure there’s nothing left to do at this point.” Nott, sitting on the floor and playing with her newly-unearthed magic 8-ball, hums in agreement.

Caleb considers sitting down. Really, he does, if only for a few seconds before he heads back into the kitchen to see—for the fifth time—if he needs to make any last-minute meal adjustments. (He doesn’t. It doesn’t keep him from trying, dammit.)

But sunset comes, and they gather around the kitchen table. Molly seems rather blase, though Caleb expects he’ll have questions as the seder goes on. Nott’s eyes don’t lift from the seder plate. Her nose wrinkles when she looks at the horseradish—her gaze moves onto the boiled egg and orange, and she leans forward, seemingly subconscious.

“If you cannot keep yourself from eating off of it, Mäuschen,” says Caleb, “there is still time for me to set up a children’s table.” Reddening, Nott sits back. “I thought so.”

He pauses to pour the first glasses of wine, including that in the center of the table. Then, with a cough, he folds his hands on the table.

“Ah, uh, this is my—” He hesitates, recalling the time in college that Nott come to visit this time of year. “This is my second time conducting the seder, but it has been—it has been a while. It—I do not think it will be perfect, but one of you has never been to one in your life and the other hasn’t in years. So you won’t be able to tell.”

“We’ll be a good audience,” says Molly, hands up. Caleb somehow doubts it.

Something seems to occur to Nott, and she tilts her head. “Where have you had these? For the past few years, I mean—”

“The local temple holds communal ones.” Caleb gnashes his teeth. Like the services on other holidays, they’d been nice but uncomfortable on a personal level, though at least no one had explicitly pressured him to socialize beyond basic participation. On the quiet note that ensues, he opens the Passover Haggadah and clears his throat. “The first step—”

And so they go on. The first several steps are a breeze, both Molly and Nott taking to them with ease. They say the Kiddush (Molly awkwardly, Nott better but still clumsy); wash their hands; eat the saltwater-dipped parsley; and break, wrap, and hide the middle matzah. Caleb isn’t creative or energized enough to find a special spot for it. He’s sure Nott, with her eyes pinched shut while he glances around, will find it within minutes at the evening’s end. Next comes—

“Youngest person,” says Caleb, drawing from the book a printed sheet of paper filled with both Hebrew and English text. He waves it toward Nott. “Read the Four Questions, please.”

“I’m not singing them this time,” she says.

“Thank you for that.” Caleb rubs his forehead and passes the paper across the table. “Also, if you try to read the Hebrew this time, we will be here all night, so do not do that. It has happened before,” he adds to a bemused Molly.

“I know, I know,” says Nott, nose scrunched. She coughs, then reads while Caleb pours their second glasses of wine and sets a glass of water in the center of the table.

Once she’s finished reciting, Caleb sits forward to tell the story of the Exodus. He doesn’t _need_ to look at the Haggadah for direction—he’d heard it all through his life, not to mention read it more than once—but it still gives him comfort to look down when his throat dries. He attempts striking a happy medium between what he remembers of his mother’s storytelling from ten years prior and his own during library classes. If his captivated audience is any indication, it goes well enough.

They drink the wine and proceed on. Nott’s stomach growls during the second hand washing (“Patience, Schwesterherz,” says Caleb with a sigh as Nott reddens and Molly snorts), so he tries speeding through the remaining steps. Caleb reads the blessing over the matzah, and Nott stretches across the table to tap Molly’s arm and say, “Just smile and nod.”

Caleb gives her a larger slab _and_ more bitter herbs than usual. As he watches her try not to pull faces and wash each down with her nearby water, he smiles serenely.

“You spend too much time around five-to-eleven-year-olds,” says Molly.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

The dinner itself follows. Over it, they share a loose, casual conversation over and between the sounds of Nott the human vacuum cleaner practically licking her plate clean. Caleb starts into various stories, but he’s always distracted before he can finish, either by his own laughter or someone else’s. It’s the most joyous seder he’s been part of in years. He ignores his ever-blanketing self-doubt and lets himself relax into it.

“Nott,” he says when the plates are clean, “would you go find the afikomen?”

She gives him a thumbs-up and leaps from her seat. Before Caleb can suggest she take it slow, the hearty meal and wine she’d downed seem to hit her—swaying on her feet, Nott grips the table for support.

“All right there?” says Molly, grinning.

Nott halfheartedly flips him off. “I’ll go in—in a minute. A couple.”

After a few minutes, she does manage to wander off and waltz back with the afikomen in tow in under five minutes. More accurately, under three, according to the kitchen timer Molly sets.

Molly leans back after draining the third glass of wine. He straightens, though, when they move onto step fourteen—maybe for the promise of more wine, maybe for the reading Caleb starts in on. A very drunk Nott scurries to open the door. Caleb does feel a bit bad for relegating the kid duties to her, but she _i_ _s_ the youngest person at the table.

And after the final glass of wine, just like that, it’s almost over.

“Lashana haba’a b’irushalayim,” Caleb says into the renewed silence. His voice is more of a sing-song than usual (or at least more than sober Caleb would care to admit). For the benefit of the two at the table who don’t speak Hebrew, he adds, “Next year in Jerusalem.”

When he glances around expectantly, Molly and Nott are quick to echo it. They settle to repeat the English translation only—it saves both Caleb’s ears and their mouths, so it’s an equitable enough solution. He leaves Nott in the kitchen to clean up while he sees Molly to the door.

“I know that look on your face,” says Molly before he can even open his mouth, “so I’m saying now that it was _fine_ , Caleb.” Caleb flushes and starts to protest—he falls silent when Molly pats his shoulder. Then, blinking, Molly adds, “Oh, more than fine, sorry—it was great. You’re much more suited to leadership than you’d ever admit, you know.”

Caleb tries not to think about that too much, lest the knot in his stomach tightens up again. “You, uh, are not driving home, right?” he asks instead. He realizes immediately after he asks that Molly’s hard-to-miss car isn’t outside. Or at least anywhere outside that he can see it from here.

“Nope, since Uber exists.” Molly peers around Caleb’s shoulder, squinting into the kitchen, and cups his hands around his mouth to call, “Nice to see you too, Nott!”

She doesn’t reply. Caleb winces. “I should—I should go make sure she isn’t passed out on the floor—”

“Has that happened before?”

“…ja, probably.” Hovering in the doorway, Caleb notes the amount of cold air blowing into the house. He’s pretty sure Elijah won’t make a return trip tonight, so he ushers Molly out onto the porch. “I am kicking you out now, sorry. Goodnight, Schatz.”

Molly laughs, one hand in his jacket pocket, and leans forward to kiss him. “Goodnight, mahal.”

Before Caleb can process—let alone ask about—the new nickname, Molly’s slipped out and shut the door behind him.

+

Time passes.

That is a universal constant of life, but as the end of the school year draws nearer, Caleb is startled at how fast the days roll by. This isn’t to say they become less significant—there’s just less room for significance as the school staff buckles down on their individual jobs. Desmond starts advertising tryouts for the June talent show in early April. Kiri stops by Caleb’s library more and more often, an ever-pleasant fixture in his life that eases the brunt of the worst days. Classes go as well as they tend to.

“Are you and Mx. Tealeaf dating? You look less sad when you look at each other now,” says Toya in class one day, and Caleb chokes on his coffee and refuses to answer.

On a personal level, things progress the same as ever. Fjord and Jester live in married bliss (and Jester complains about the fact that they can’t go on a honeymoon until summer). Molly convinces Beau and Yasha to go on a disastrous double date with him and Caleb, and they all agree never to do it again, but they wind up at the same restaurant for dinner two weeks later. It’s a coincidence, they all agree. Nott spends a concerning amount of time on her phone and has occasional sleepovers with the other women.

One time, she’s telling Caleb about getting her nails painted and putting cucumbers over her eyes and beating Yasha at video games and the like when she cuts herself off. “I’ve never gotten to do this sort of thing before,” she says, then. “It’s—it’s kind of weird, but I like it. Even if Jester is way too good at pillow fights.”

Times are good, times are bad, times are neutral. Fights are had and then resolved, laughter is shared, irreplaceable bonds continue to strengthen. Life runs its usual course.

A normal April morning, Molly strolls into the library thirty-odd minutes before school starts. It’s become a less-than-unusual sight since March. Caleb, who’s in the middle of setting up laptops for a state testing session scheduled in a couple hours, greets him with a simple nod. He gives the bright and almost familiar box in Molly’s hand one look before deeming it unimportant.

“What’s that?” asks Nott, tipping back in her chair.

Caleb doesn’t look up from booting up a laptop as he says, “You are going to fall, Schwesterherz, as I been telling you five times in the past ten minutes.”

He’s pretty sure Nott sticks her tongue out. He refuses to check.

“Don’t worry, she’ll get workman’s comp,” says Molly breezily, before pausing and adding, quieter, “I think.” He moves on with a small cough, and Caleb hears Nott’s chair squeak back onto the ground. This, he looks up to confirm. “You were saying, Nott?”

“The box. What’s in it?” Nott scoots closer to the counter with a loud dragging sound. Caleb winces and jams the next power button a little too hard. “Is it something expensive? Something expensive for Caleb?”

“It’s pastries,” says Molly. “Jester and I went to that place in the Pentamarket—apparently you’ve been there with her, Caleb?” Caleb groans. There’s a creaking noise—probably the box opening—and then a little inhale from Nott. “She got an unnerving amount for herself, I bought slightly less to hand out to as many staff members as I can find before they’re gone. Would you like any, Nott?”

Setting up the last laptop, Caleb looks up in time to see Nott reaching into the box. “Do not make yourself sick,” he warns.

Nott rolls her eyes. “I won’t,” she says, petulant, already holding two powdered donuts.

“And also do not get crumbs on my books, please and thank you,” he adds while he still can, “or I will ban you from my library for life.”

“Fine, fine,” says Nott.

Molly pats her head across the counter. “We’ll always come second place to the Dewey Decimal System, dear. Best get used to it before it’s too late.”

“Glad you understand,” says Caleb.

Nott nods mock-tearily and shoves a donut in her mouth. A donut that is at least half the size of her face, so the tears might be real, or at least become so when she tries to maneuver it between her pointy but still relatively small teeth. Caleb winces and rearranges the laptops—they don’t need it, per se, but they still look nicer when he’s done. On his way back over to his chair, he straightens several lopsided books across several shelves. (Also unnecessary, but the world—in other words, his library—is all the better for it.)

As he sits, Molly offers him the box of treats and says, “Do you want any?”

Caleb blinks and looks down. Inside is an assortment of the wide selection of pastries he and Jester had seen in March—mainly donuts and maple bars, with some acclaimed-by-Jester bear claws in the mix. He glances at Nott, still chewing the first donut; the other sits on the countertop before her. Caleb grabs a Kleenex to slip under it. Crumbs on his books may be his primary concern, but that doesn’t mean he wants them on the counter he’d polished last week either.

“Fank ooh,” says Nott, crumbs flying from her mouth.

“You’re welcome.” Caleb sighs and leans back over to his desktop, then realizes he hadn’t given an owlish-faced Molly an answer. “I—uh—sure?”

Molly flashes him a toothpaste commercial smile, then plucks out a donut at random. Beside Caleb, Nott swallows and stands, both with more noise than necessary. Caleb points at his _INSIDE VOICES_ sign on reflex. Ignoring him, she leans back down to wipe her powder-caked fingers off on the tissue.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announces.

“All right?” says Caleb, not sure why it ends up a question.

A nod and a glance in Molly’s direction, then Nott is out the door. Molly raises his eyebrows and holds out the donut again—as soon as Caleb reaches up, though, a _ka-ching!_ sound comes from Molly’s pocket, and they both flinch.

“Should you answer that?”

“It’s just Jester texting, I—”

Another _ka-ching!_ And another. And… another. Caleb can’t remember a time when he could hear any other sounds.

“Oh, god-fucking-dammit,” says Molly, scrounging around in his pocket. His phone continues beeping, incessant, and he mumbles curses as he thumbs through the messages. He types something out, then shoves his now-silent phone back in his pocket. “Anyway. You wanted a donut, right?” he asks, reaching back into the box.

Caleb glances at his calendar, narrowing his eyes at today’s date. “Not if it is a ploy to convince me to come to happy hour this week.”

Molly gasps overdramatically. “I’m shocked you’d suggest a thing, darling, truly. Would it help dissuade that assumption if I—”

With a quirk of his head and a glint in his eyes, mimicking Jester’s trademark look—which doesn’t add to his credibility but does make him look very cute—he picks up another donut. Caleb doubts it’s the same one Molly had offered a few minutes ago. It looks similar enough, so he sighs and holds out his hand. Molly, rather than handing it to him, sets the box down on the counter with his other hand. Caleb frowns as he proceeds to lean across the counter, hand nearing Caleb’s face.

It takes a second for his brain to click. Face hot, he catches Molly’s wrist. “I strongly doubt that will help.”

“Hasty decision to make,” says Molly, but he pulls his hand back.

Caleb glances around—when he doesn’t see anyone walking past or hiding behind his bookshelves, he sighs again. He scoots closer to the counter, tucked-up knees knocking into his counter drawers. “Fine. I was not kidding about the crumbs on the books, by the way.”

The gleam returns to Molly’s eyes. “Oh, I know.”

Caleb has suspected for some time he’s living in a shoddy excuse for a rom-com, and this does nothing to dissuade his suspicions. Even so, he sits further forward, puts his feet on the actual ground, and opens his mouth. Molly, not being Nott, breaks the chocolate-glazed donut into smaller pieces to feed him. It’s somewhat uncomfortable, given that they aren’t on eye level and Caleb’s face is radiating a concerning amount of heat. Also uncomfortable is Molly’s gaze on him—Caleb is vaguely aware it’s more along the lines of startled silence, but he averts his own gaze nonetheless.

The bell rings above, and Caleb almost both spits out the last mouthful and chokes. He manages to do neither. Molly, pink-faced but smiling thinly, wipes a crumb off his jaw and backs away from the counter.

“Ah,” says Molly, “I didn’t get to anyone else this morning. Guess I’ll just have the rest myself.”

“Hm,” says Caleb, still chewing.

Molly taps his cheek in consideration. “Or I could leave them here for Nott once she gets back from—” air quotes “—the bathroom.”

Caleb swallows so he can say, “Don’t do that. If she gets sick or gets anything on my books, I will ban you for life too. For enabling.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Molly picks up the box again, tucking it back against his chest, and shuts the lid. “Hey, out of curiosity, since I mentioned the Dewey Decimal System earlier—” A fear-instilling set of words, from him. “What number would, hm—what would a book about religion be under?”

“‘Religion’ is vague,” says Caleb, squinting. “Any specific one?”

“Nope.”

“The two hundreds, then. It is—the section is mostly Christianity up until the two hundred nineties.”

“Impeccable,” says Molly. He pauses for a moment, then leans down to peck Caleb’s forehead before turning and heading toward the door. In the doorway, he stops again. “Oh, and mahal?”

Caleb lifts his head. “Hm?”

Molly’s eyes flash in the light as he turns, hand on the door frame. His hair, bright purple and grazing his shoulders now, shines with a luminosity that has Caleb still and blinking for several long moments. At least until he opens his mouth.

“You’re coming to happy hour on Saturday, right?” asks Molly.

Caleb throws a Kleenex at him.

(As soon as Molly leaves, though, snickering all the way, Caleb picks up his phone to text Jester. _Yes, I will_ _come_ , he sends. _You didn’t have to send the cavalry—i.e., my boyfriend—_ _to convince me_ _,_ _I would have agreed anyway._

She replies, after approximately thirty seconds: _awesome thnx!!!!_ , followed by a dizzying number of winking and heart emojis.)

+

Halfway into May, Caleb realizes (while he’s making his way through the overwhelming arrangement that Molly calls a “traditional—but as kosher as I could make it—Irish breakfast”) how long it’s been since he went book shopping. For his personal collection _or_ for the school. He’s surprised he hasn’t dropped dead of bookstore deprivation yet.

He means to convey this as soon as it comes to mind, but his fried egg-filled mouth prevents him from doing so. When he’s done chewing, he says, “I—I do not know if you were planning anything for today, but I want to go book shopping, I think, so—”

“Sounds great,” says Molly, muffled around a forkful of potatoes. He pushes a side plate forward. “Want more bread? By that I mean, _please take some more bread because_ _Jester and_ _I made way too much_ _the other day_ _, dear God._ ”

Caleb walks into his house twenty-five minutes later and finds Nott perched on the couch, gnawing on a pen cap as she studies a newspaper. At the sound of the door clicking shut, she slams the newspaper down on the coffee table and whirls on him. Caleb raises his eyebrows in silence. Nott, wide-eyed, sinks back into the couch. With a huff, Caleb leans down to pat an approaching Frumpkin’s head.

“Uh. Hi,” says Nott weakly. She sucks in a breath and says, at a speed Caleb’s only heard Jester use before, “I forgot you were staying at Molly’s last night so I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t here, but then I remembered and also I might have broken your microwave but it’s probably fine—”

“Okay, okay, Schwesterherz, slow down—wait,” says Caleb, eyes narrowing. “What was that about my microwave?”

Nott flushes. “Nothing! Don’t worry about it! I didn’t say anything!”

He’s too tired and too impatient to push it, so he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will find out later, I’m sure. I am—uh, I am going to go book shopping with Molly after I get dressed. Do you want to come with?”

“Oh—” Several emotions flicker through Nott’s face, and she shoots a look over her shoulder at the face-down newspaper, but she perks up. “Sure! Are we going downtown? There’s lots of shiny things there. And shiny people.”

Caleb is well aware of this. He shudders, refraining from totaling up the hours he’d spent there with Jester. “We will see.”

After a beat, in which Caleb starts down the hall, Nott adds, “Molly’s going?”

“Ja, why?”

Concern sinks in when she doesn’t reply. He turns, glancing over his shoulder, to see Nott staring in contemplation at the carpet. Before he can ask, she says, “It’ll—it’ll be like a family outing.”

“Oh,” says Caleb, eyebrows lifting. “I, uh. I suppose so, yes.”

To avoid any further comments, he speedwalks to his room.

After a heated discussion in Molly’s car, they end up going to the historic downtown. The used bookshop in the Pentamarket turns out to be closed on Saturdays, and so, with groans and longing looks over their shoulders, they walk further downtown to another shopping center. A cursive-lettered sign hanging above a cottage-like bookstore draws Caleb’s attention. Partially wanting to stop wandering for a few moments, he points it out.

And, as they approach, he spots a familiar figure exiting the bakery next door. Two figures, actually. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this.

“Oh no _why_ ,” he mutters anyway.

There is, for sure, a certain discomfort about encountering students in public—more so for the student, who gets the mind-blowing realization that _my teacher has a life outside of school-slash-work_. (Caleb’s not sure how accurate this realization is in his case, even putting aside the _teacher_ part.) Then there’s the sliding scale of their parents’ and/or guardians’ reactions, from pleasant to uncomfortable to outright rude.

However, there is also another brand of discomfort that accompanies bumping into fellow faculty members in public. Even ones whose wedding Caleb attended less than two months ago.

Jester, in the middle of licking frosting off her fingers, spots them before Caleb can hide behind a nearby bench. Her eyes light up in that way he dreads. With a quick murmur to Fjord, she grabs his arm and shouts, “Hello!” at the top of her lungs. Unnecessary, given the—give or take—two feet between them.

Caleb grits out a smile. “Hello, Jester.”

“Howdy,” says Molly.

Nott settles for a nod.

“Hey,” says Fjord, smiling and patting Jester’s shoulder to get her to loosen her grip on his arm. It looks like she’s cutting off circulation. “Fancy seeing y’all out here.”

“Quite the coincidence,” deadpans Caleb. He eyes Jester like she somehow planned for them both to wind up in the Pentamarket again, but she lifts her hands up with an innocent grin. Shuffling his feet, he gestures toward the bookstore they’re standing in front of. “We were just, uh, going to—”

“What is this, a convention?” comes another familiar voice.

Caleb’s regret solidifies when he turns to see Beau and Yasha, hands intertwined, strolling toward them. They look like they’ve come from the gym—probable, but also a natural state of appearance for them both. Yasha’s muscle tank highlights her lightning bolt tattoo. Face as unreadable as ever, she nods in Molly’s general direction.

Beau blows out a bubble of blue gum. It pops after a beat, but she continues chewing as obnoxiously loud as possible. “We must’ve missed the Facebook invite, huh, babe?”

“Mm,” says Yasha, then she gestures over her shoulder. “We were having lunch over there and decided to take a walk. Good to see you all.”

Beau chokes on her gum. Jester edges toward her as if readying herself to perform the Heimlich. Caleb resists the urge to cut off the conversation and just walk into the bookstore and instead says, snide, “Fine, since this has already turned into a group activity, why do not you all come buy books with us?”

A beat.

And so, less than five minutes later, they’re all scattered throughout the cozy bookstore, of which the shopkeeper (one of two owners, according to a plaque on the wall) seems to loathe them already. Caleb doesn’t blame her. He fixes his attention firmly on the shelf before him, consisting of shiny new copies of classics, and ignores his companions.

It’s a difficult task. They’re not easily ignored people in any situation, and in this one, they’re all too close to him to zone out. It might be on purpose, or it could be because the store is cramped as it is.

Caleb can make out various conversations from where he’s standing. By the romance section, Jester reads bits of an apparently dirty romantic fantasy novel to a red-faced Fjord—the name _Oskar_ crops up more than once. Beau, not far away, flips through flat-out erotica Molly hands her and reads chosen excerpts to a bored-looking Yasha. From what Caleb hears of Beau’s deadpan reading, he can understand Yasha’s boredom.

“This isn’t remotely realistic or sexy,” says Yasha.

Beau scoffs, still turning chunks of pages at a time. “Molly, I _told_ you to grab the lesbian vampire one instead of this historical fantasy crap.”

“It’s not much better, trust me,” says Molly, scanning said book.

Nott is being Nott, which is to say she’s already tried and failed to climb various bookshelves in hopes of being able to see the top shelves. Now, she seems to have moved onto pocketing anything and everything, short of the actual books.

Once Jester starts rearranging the stock, though, the shopkeeper’s final straw snaps. She slams her hands on the counter and stands. “Out, the whole lot of you. Especially the short ones.”

They file out without protest—Fjord gives his profuse apologies while Nott slips a tiny picture book into his jean pocket. Caleb attempts to hide behind the bookshelf, but the shopkeeper’s gaze finds him. He steps out with a sigh and decides to make nice.

“I apologize for the commotion,” he says with a flimsy smile that makes his face hurt. “I am… not associated with those—those people, but, er, the decent thing is still to apologize, ja? Uh—” He gestures to a book she has open on the counter. “What is that you are reading? I am—I’m very interested in literature, always looking for more to read. I am a grade school librarian, you see—”

Her glare doesn’t let up. Caleb glances down at her nametag as if learning her name—Uma—will hold the secrets to getting out of here unscathed. He glances to the side to see Jester with her face against the window, mouthing something he can’t understand. Uma’s eyes dart that way too, and, quickly, Caleb drops his gaze.

“Right,” he says. “Um. Would you mind showing me to your middle grade selections? If you—if you have one.”

With a hefty sigh, Uma points him toward a dusty corner of the shop. Caleb is fairly certain she doesn’t kick him out only because he buys one of almost every middle grade novel in stock, not to mention a handful of other books. She still doesn’t look too happy about ringing him up. Again, Caleb can’t blame her.

“Thank you very much,” he says while she wrestles the books into several plastic bags. He recalls his reusable bags at home and hopes she doesn’t notice him wringing his sweaty hands. “I—this is quite the establishment—”

Uma shoves seven filled bags forward and sweeps a few empty extra bags away. “Pleasure doing business,” she says like it’s physically paining her.

“Uh. Ja, have—have a good day.” _Shut up now,_ he tells himself, and he’s sure Uma is thinking the same thing.

Biting his lip so hard he tastes copper, Caleb gathers the bags up and slides four onto his arms, which become dead weight at once—problematic, given he has to hold the remaining three. In Beau’s words, he should work out more. The bags weigh him down as he steps outside, flashing a weak smile over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to wait and see Uma’s reaction.

The door swings shut behind him, and his friends lift their heads. He doesn’t know whether to be touched or concerned they’d all stuck within a five-foot radius of the store.

“She is probably going to sue you all.”

Molly, leaning against the wall of the bakery next door, shrugs. “She can try.”

“Did you get any smut?” asks Beau, and Jester nods.

Fjord drops his head into his hands. “Y’all’ve got some fucked up priorities, let me just say that.”

“Agreed,” says Yasha. When Beau shoots her an offended look, she sighs and folds her arms. “ _Did_ you get any smut?”

Nott claps her hands over her ears and turns her back on them, chanting, “BLAH BLAH BLAH.” She gets a few dirty looks from passersby but doesn’t appear to notice or care. Caleb, still struggling with the weight of the obscene number of books he’d purchased, glares at Beau and Jester.

“No,” he says. “I did not purchase any porn, thank you for asking.”

“Boo,” says Beau.

Jester pouts. “You didn’t even have to do it with your own money, though! You get a certain amount of money you get to buy books and equipment for school with, right?”

“Jes, I strongly doubt he wants to use that to buy erotica,” says Fjord.

Caleb groans before Jester can open her mouth. “Enough,” he says, shaking his aching arms, and Nott drops her hands from her ears. “Would someone help me carry these? I am—I am not a strong man.” He not-so-subtly steps toward Yasha, who’s looking the opposite direction.

“Yasha, dear,” says Molly, elbowing her in the side. “I believe he means you.”

Nott shoots Molly a reproachful look. “Why don’t you carry your boyfriend’s books for him?”

Molly lifts his hands. “No can do. I’m all waifish. Haven’t been to a gym in years.”

“He’s only been inside one once at that, and he did absolutely nothing but watch me work out,” says Yasha, stepping toward Caleb. Molly scoffs but doesn’t deny it. With a blink, Yasha slides the heavy plastic bags off Caleb’s arms and onto hers like it’s easy—she leaves him the two around his wrists, which he lowers to his sides. “There. Feel better?”

“Yes, thank you.” That taken care of, Caleb glares at the rest of them. Except Fjord, who just looks like he wants to go home. “You all are insufferable.”

“Aw, you looove us,” says Jester.

“Those are not mutually exclusive things,” says Caleb.

Upon realizing he’s counteractively agreed, he flushes and flips up the hood of his jacket. It gets him some odd looks, given the sunny and cloudless sky above them and the clear pinkness in his face, but his focus is on the chorus of _aww_ s that strikes up behind him.

Insufferable indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [regarding the orange and cup of water in the first scene](https://jwa.org/blog/he-orange-on-seder-plate-and-miriams-cup-foregrounding-women-at-your-seder)
> 
> thank you for reading!!! see you friday for the last chapter (which is also the longest one)! it has been a Ride yall... but more on that on friday!
> 
> translation:  
> \+ mahal: love, beloved, dear
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


	16. part iii, chapter vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things come to a close, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!! WOW!! we're finally here huh!!! uhh i'll let yall get right into it bc this is, a looong chapter as you can tell and the endnotes are also... pretty long (hence why i'm putting it up early again, that and i didn't want to look at it any longer)
> 
> suggested listening: [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWG-h94qe2A), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pozDLjFUVbM), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSWIfX_MNCY), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUFJJNQGwhk), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPNgq4ZRxKg) (also like, [the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/gealbhan/playlist/6vNJwZ2p7CwWQicKExt1Cf?si=1hjeUFHMSBab82NRUYviHw) in general if you haven't already given it a look/listen)
> 
> i've also gone back and edited all the chapter summaries -- i changed my format for them like. three times throughout this fic and the inconsistency was killing me LMAO. anyway, enjoy!!! :')

It isn’t like Caleb hasn’t noticed the number of newspapers that have entered their home in the past few weeks, nor Nott’s sudden need to help clean up around the house (including her own pigsty of a room). He just doesn’t know how or when to bring it up.

The odd behavior persists through early June, and Caleb grows more anxious about it by the day. He focuses on work instead—not too difficult, given he’s been doing it the past several years—and ignores the multiple elephants whenever they’re in a room together. Any meals they have together are near-silent unless Molly is there. It’s stifling, a startling change to the closeness they’ve regained this year.

“If she weren’t twenty-five, I’d say puberty,” says Molly, when Caleb brings it up. “But she is, so—sorry, dear, I’ve got nothing that’ll help.”

He goes to Jester next (and Fjord, by proxy of being in the counselor’s office at the time). “I could talk to her,” she offers. “We’re friends, and I do have a degree in psychology—”

Fjord gives Caleb a pitying look. “From my experience, these things’ve got a habit of workin’ themselves out. Just, uh—good luck, Caleb.”

Next come Beau and Yasha—he sits in Yasha’s classroom in the dark with them on a lunch break, none of them speaking and none of them eating. Yasha says, “Why don’t you just talk to her?” and, in a blink, the weird stillness of the room untethers.

“Yeah, man,” says Beau, sneaking food out of Yasha’s lunch bag. “Don’t beat around the bush and don’t ignore it. That never actually fucking works.”

In the end, as with most things, Nott comes to talk to him while he’s still agonizing about how to talk to her.

A week into June, he flees to the couch after dinner, leaving Nott to the dishes. It’s half to chicken out of a conversation and half to get to work on adding new books into his filing system. He notices the dishwasher click shut and the sink closed, but he doesn’t notice Nott in the living room until she steps directly in front of him. She clears her throat, and Caleb lifts his head. Her fisted hands tense at her sides as she meets his wide-eyed gaze.

Several seconds of tense silence pass, then—

“I’m moving out,” she tells him.

“Oh,” says Caleb. He glances at one of her fists—clenched in it are a handful of what appear to be more newspaper clippings. After probably too long a pause, he says, “Uh, now?”

Nott exhales, a relieved _whoosh_ of air. “No, I—this summer. After—after school ends.” Her fists—well, the one not holding wads of paper unclenches, then tightens again. “I don’t—I mean. I might be living in a, uh—a shitty apartment for a while, but at least it’ll be mine. You—you have your space, and I want—I _need_ mine.”

“Schwesterherz, I—”

“I’m,” says Nott, and then she stops again. Her eyes squeeze shut; when she speaks again, Caleb can hear the tremor in each word. “This is—this is hard. I won’t be able to protect you all the time. Not like I’ve tried to.” Caleb is struck into silence, fingers frozen on his keyboard as he looks at her. “But I don’t think I’ve been doing a very good job of that in a long time.”

“Nott,” says Caleb, soft, and she doesn’t interrupt this time. “What do you have to protect me against?”

Nott’s fists—both of them, this time—unclench, and the newspaper clippings flutter to the ground. Now, Caleb can see that they’re apartment listings, but he doesn’t bother reading the details. With another deep breath, Nott says, “The world.”

Staring at the blinking cursor on his screen, Caleb doesn’t respond. Nott, still taking deep breaths, doesn’t seem to be done.

“I grew up before I was ready to,” she says after a beat. She shakes her head, strands of loose hair falling onto her face. “The—the world _made_ me grow up before I was ready, and I had nothing before you and—you and your parents found me. And I—for a while, I had everything, even if I didn’t realize it was everything then. It had been me against the world, but then it was us against the world.”

Caleb swallows. “That has not been a requirement for a long time.”

“I know,” says Nott, almost a whisper. “But I still—it’s always at the back of my mind that, no matter how better it’s gotten, we need to protect each other. That _I_ need to protect _you_. And I think I should stop clinging to that. So I’m—I’m trying to put some distance between us. Not, like, ‘never see each other again’ distance,” she adds quickly. “Just—just that I shouldn’t leech off you and your house anymore.”

“You haven’t—”

“I know,” says Nott again. She smiles, a little sad, and blinks, throat bobbing. “I’m—I’m doing this for both of us. I’ll still—Caleb, you’re my _brother_ , but you’re also my best friend. I love you, and I still want to protect you, and I always will, but—” Another deep, shaky breath. Caleb finds himself taking a few of those. “But I think I should try to protect myself too.”

Silence overtakes the room, aside from Nott’s heavy breathing. She looks exhausted and scared, hands shaking at her sides, but she also looks confident and proud in a way Caleb’s never quite seen her.

Caleb sets his laptop aside and stands. Nott blinks up at him, her eyes watery—Caleb is frozen, for an instant, as he stares back. He takes a deep breath, stepping forward, and embraces her. Nott’s arms come up to wrap around his back at once. She leans up toward him, hair bristling against his neck, and he pretends not to hear her muffled sniffles.

Caleb isn’t sure how long they stand there, but when his arms begin itching where they’re tight around Nott’s torso, he backs away with a start. His fingers linger on Nott’s shoulders. She blinks and wipes her eyes, face wrinkling in brief confusion.

“I understand, Schwesterherz,” he says, soft, “but I need you to hear this too.” He drops his gaze from hers, since the wetness in her eyes is making his well up. “There will always be a place for you here, and I mean that. You are—you are my greatest friend, Nott, and even if things change, you can always come back here. Always. To visit _or_ to stay.”

He stops, swallowing, and Nott reaches up to squeeze his wrist.

“I know, I know,” she says, henpecked despite the pointy smile zig-zagging across her face. “You’ve always got a guest room open, ja?”

Caleb ignores the awful accent for now and returns her smile. “Ja.”

Another few moments of silence, this one more comfortable and graceful (mostly given they’re both ignoring each other’s gazes while they clean their faces up). Then Nott tilts her head and says, “Plus, now that you’ve got a boyfriend, you might appreciate the extra space—”

“Okay,” says Caleb, pressing his palm against Nott’s forehead to push her back. Any teary sentimentality is lost. “I think it is past your bedtime—”

“It’s not even seven! Also, I’m an adult and don’t have a bedtime!”

(Later, after the bickering and slap-fighting is over, Caleb says, “Do you need any help looking for a place to live?” He eyes the abandoned newspaper clippings, marked up with dark green Sharpie, on the floor. “I know you have already done a lot on your own, but—”

“Maybe later, when I’m actually, y’know, going to see them,” says Nott. “But I trust Molly to be a better judge of how livable apartments are than you, so he has to help too.”

“ _Hey.”_

“Caleb, I love you and all—”

“You have said that twice tonight, are you feeling all right?”

“—but you lived in the absolute worst apartment complex for four years because they allowed pets,” says Nott, ignoring him. “Even though you didn’t have Frumpkin until your last year there.”

“…We do not talk about that place.”)

+

Jester appears like a wraith in Caleb’s doorway nineteen minutes before the annual talent show is set to start. From the glint in her eyes, he can tell he’s facing an uphill battle, but he still tries feebly to fight.

“I will be able to hear everything from down here,” he says before she can open her mouth. “The walls are thin, Jester—”

“Hear what?” asks Nott.

“You say that every year,” says Jester. “Come on, don’t you want to do things differently for once?” He cannot stress how much he doesn’t want to do that—enough that he says nothing, just raises his eyebrows. Jester purses her lips and tries a different tactic. “Don’t you want to see the children?”

“I see enough of them every day,” Caleb cuts in. “Too much of them, in fact.”

“But you don’t see them performing,” says Jester. “It’ll be fun! Caleb, are you allergic to fun?”

“Yes,” he deadpans, looking back down at his computer.

“ _What’ll_ be fun?” near-yells Nott.

Jester blinks as if noticing her presence for the first time, and then grins. Caleb’s gaze rises to Nott. “Honest question, Mäuschen—have you looked at the school calendar once?”

Nott flushes. “Uh. I’ve skimmed it?”

“Today’s the talent show!” says Jester, spreading her arms and doing a little skip-dance. “Caleb has sat down here brooding during them last year and the year before—” Caleb makes a face and sinks further into his chair “—but this year I’m taking a stand! It’s always super fun and cute and really exciting and you absolutely need to watch it this year. You too, Nott.”

Nott glances between Caleb and Jester. “Um. Caleb?”

“I am staying here,” says Caleb, and Nott shrugs.

Jester gives Caleb a sunny smile that he assumes is meant as a threat. He certainly _feels_ threatened. “I’m considering interrogating Nott for blackmail material and using it against you, just so you know,” she says in as cheery a tone as ever. Nott’s eyebrows go up.

“You terrify me,” says Caleb. “I hope you know this.”

“But,” she adds, “I won’t do that, because I’m such a nice person.” The dimples make this even more sinister, Caleb thinks. Nott, wide-eyed, continues looking between them. “So I will just say this—there’s one performance I think you’ll want to see, so why not come watch the whole thing? It’s a perfect solution.”

“We have different definitions of that phrase,” says Caleb, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, all right, I will humble you. What performance will I want to see?”

“Kiri’s, of course,” says Jester. “She’s—”

But she doesn’t get to say just what Kiri is doing. At that instant, Nott’s chair scrapes back, almost toppling over as she leaps up from it and slams her hands on the counter. “Let’s go,” she tells Caleb.

“Nott—”

“We’re going,” says Nott, looking at Jester, and then she turns her sharp look back on Caleb. “We’re going to go watch.”

Caleb groans, but he can’t deny the spark of interest the mention of Kiri had fanned. “You are both the worst, but all right.”

Jester perks up at once, clapping her hands and squealing with delight. Caleb points to his _INSIDE VOICES_ sign. She ignores him—why does he even bother?—in favor of saying, in her usual volume, “I knew you would come around! I know you that well, Caleb.”

With a sigh, Caleb lets Nott drag him up to his feet by the sleeve. He tries to zone Jester out, which might be a humanly impossible feat. She’s already halfway into the hall and yet still talking.

“In fact,” she’s saying, “I know you _so_ well that I made sure there were two free seats. They’re next to Molly.” She draws out his name like they’re still discussing him in secret, like Caleb hadn’t been dating him for—oh, jeez—almost three months.

Caleb tries not to smile; a tiny one slips past against his wishes. Nott snickers. He “accidentally” steps on her foot.

The gym is mostly unoccupied when they walk in—save for some students and staff members setting up—and Molly himself is not in the seat Jester promises is his. A purple place card, though there’s nothing written on it, implies she’s not lying. Nott plops down and leans forward to watch Beau and Yasha lug equipment across the room. Caleb sneaks a book out of his jacket. (It’s a precautionary measure, he always insists, and it worked out this time, didn’t it?)

Fjord, sitting cross-legged beside his thirty-some students minus a few (including Kiri), leans over and pats the floor by Caleb’s foot. “What’re you reading?”

“ _The Metamorphosis,”_ says Caleb, tapping the cover. He remembers after a second that it’s a German copy. No, Fjord wouldn’t be able to read _Die Verwandlung_ , would he?

“‘Course you are,” mutters Fjord.

Beau, strolling by with a microphone stand, snorts. Caleb stretches out his leg, and, scowling, she steps over it. In the row of chairs behind them, with her arm draped over the back of Nott’s chair, Jester giggles.

More classes trickle in over the next few minutes, until the gym is packed with people—and yet the quietest Caleb’s ever heard a room full of elementary schoolers. Molly has, indeed, come to occupy the chair between Caleb’s and Dairon’s.

Seeing that everyone has arrived, Bryce gets up from their seat on the other side of the room and strides onto the stage. Nott nudges Caleb’s shoulder. Reluctantly, he sets his book in his lap. He glances around to see a fair amount of parents gathered on the uppermost row of the bleachers—he spots Kiri’s mother and nods, but she’s fiddling with a camera and doesn’t seem to notice. Like the rest of the room, he returns his attention to Bryce.

They clear their throat. “Welcome, all—students, parents—” they nod toward the bleachers “—and our very own faculty members.” A murmur of applause. Bryce waits for it to cease before they speak again. “You may or may not already know me as Principal Bryce Feelid. If you don’t, then now you do.” A small smile crosses their face. “But for now, I believe our music teacher, Desmond Moondrop, should tell you about this event. Mr. Moondrop?”

Bryce steps aside to let Desmond up to the mic. Desmond’s face gleams under the stage lights—even from down here, Caleb can recognize the spark of pride in his gaze.

“Thank you, Mx. Feelid,” he says with a nod. “For months now, I’ve been working on this, with the help of our assistant principal Mr. Fletching—” he sweeps his hand toward Gustav, who lifts a hand in greeting “—and, of course, our talented students. It is my honor to present the annual Zadash Grade School talent show.”

More applause. Caleb toys with a frayed corner of his book.

“First up, an enchanting song from fourth-grader Toya—”

Molly straightens up. “She’s opening?”

From her awkward position against the stage door, Beau lifts her head in intrigue as well. Caleb folds his hands over his book and forces his shoulders down as the curtains part.

Out steps Toya. One hand comes up to hover on the mic stand before her; the other tugs at one of her braids, which are falling neatly on either side of her neck, framing her soft but pale face. An elegant white dress skims her ankles. Caleb wouldn’t think a golden halo out of place. The room grows still and dark as Beau flips the lights and Toya inhales, then—with the start of a slow fiddle off-stage—begins to sing.

Caleb doesn’t recognize the song—it’s a short ballad, and Toya carries it well. As she sails through it, lifting her voice above Desmond’s fiddle playing, she smiles, wide and giddy. Her wide gaze flickers over the crowd. Molly, hands clutched to his mouth, watches with rapt attention.

The rest of the gym is right there with him. Toya’s voice, soft and gentle compared to her creakier speaking voice, washes over them. Nott cranes her neck to get a better view. Off to the side, Beau drops her feigned disinterest and studies the stage with large eyes.

Toya wraps up with a fantastic high note—then, as the fiddle cuts off and silence creeps back in again, her posture goes tense. Sweat glimmers on her forehead. She smiles, hesitant, and the room breaks out of its trance as Beau flips the lights back on. As she curtsies, the stunned and delayed applause is deafening. At least five people—including Molly, Gustav, and Ornna—get to their feet. The curtains slip shut again, and a moment later, Toya scuttles out from the stage door.

Beau mumbles something, then ruffles her hair. Toya beams and darts toward her seated class—as she speeds past the teachers’ chairs, she beams up at Molly. With a little nod, Molly sits.

“Molly,” whispers Jester, leaning forward. Caleb thinks she only meant for her bubblegum-scented breath to blow across Molly’s neck, but it hits him too. “Are those tears?”

“Imigh leat,” returns Molly. “Can’t I be proud of my students?”

Jester giggles. Right in their ears. Caleb turns his head to glare, in time to see a pale hand pull her back—Yasha, crammed between Jester and Dolan, has caught her by the ponytail. Fjord sighs.

Several more acts roll past: a few more songs, both sung and performed with a variety of instruments; a gymnastics routine; even a magic act from two first-graders. Around forty minutes in, Beau heads up through the stage door. Scuffling noises echo from behind the curtains. Though the crowd exchanges murmurs of confusion, a seat behind Caleb’s creaks with the probable weight of someone bouncing in excitement. (It’s Jester, he’s sure.)

Desmond’s next announcement ends in “Kiri,” and Caleb, blinking, straightens up. He hadn’t been paying the closest attention before this, but he thinks he’d heard “taekwondo.”

The curtains roll back. Beau hovers on the edge of the stage. In the center—standing atop a long mat, wearing a white outfit tied with a yellow stripe, and facing a punching bag—is a serious-faced Kiri.

Jester’s chair squeaks as she gets up. Two flags reading _TEAM KIRI_ materialize in her hands and swing dangerously close to Caleb’s head. Twirling the flags, she shouts into the stunned-quiet gym, “Go, Kiri!”

“You’ve got this!” adds Nott—not as loud but still loud enough that it echoes. Caleb accepts his migraine in all its force.

Kiri’s head swivels toward them. Caleb flashes what he hopes is an encouraging grin. She flashes an awkward smile in return, showing off several dark spots in place of teeth. Good enough.

Invigorated, Kiri stretches. A generic pop instrumental plays from a couple speakers behind her, and as soon as it’s set up, Beau sneaks back down to stand by the stage door. Kiri takes a breath, and then launches herself up and into a series of kicks and punches, face screwed up with concentration.

Caleb glances toward the bleachers—Kiri’s mom holds her camera up, the red recording light blinking. A loud, echoing _wham_ startles his attention back to the stage.

The routine is only around three minutes long, but they’re not minutes Caleb will regret. Wide-eyed students whisper to their friends. No one seems to know if it’s done, Kiri panting and turning to face the crowd, until the music stops dead—then, in a blink, the entire room is standing. Applause comes from every direction. Every single person in the gym seems to have a grin on their face.

Kiri hesitates, beady eyes wide and face red. Jester and Nott are both yelling—together, they almost manage to drown out the applause itself. Caleb refrains from sticking his fingers in his ears (because he doesn’t want to stop clapping). Molly pats his shoulder.

Kiri hops down off the stage—with Beau’s help, which she rushes forward to give—and bows. Then, grinning cheekily and glancing in Jester’s direction, she dabs. Startled laughter replaces the roar of applause. Jester whoops at the top of her lungs, yelling something along the lines of, “I taught her that!” as Kiri darts off toward her class. She plops down, legs crossed, next to a laughing Fjord.

Caleb leans forward and nudges her shoulder with his leg. “Good job,” he murmurs.

Kiri’s beam widens. “I’m very sweet,” she tells him in Jester’s voice.

Fjord chuckles. Molly, snickering, reaches down to pat Kiri’s head, which she preens at. Nott covers her mouth to hide a high gasp—behind them, Jester doesn’t bother hiding anything. Caleb smiles and says, “Ja, I would agree with that.”

Up on the stage, Desmond is announcing, “And now, for our final act, a dazzling acrobatic dance from the fifth-grade Knot sisters, Mona and Yuli!”

Following the act, which seems to defy physics and reality both, is yet another standing ovation—though these cheers are a bit hoarser. Mona and Yuli link their arms and bow. Bryce closes up the show by dismissing the entire school, including the parents who’d come to watch, to recess, which gives way to more cheers.

Caleb stands. Before he can even think about leaving, Jester grabs the back of his scarf. He’s forced to face her, grinning smugly, as she says, “See, Caleb, aren’t you glad I made you step out into the daylight?”

“I suppose.” Jester’s grin widens, almost as bright as the sun. “Fine, ja, I am, but now I am in danger of turning into a bat,” he deadpans, “so I will be heading back downstairs to my coffin now.”

Jester pouts. “Fine, but only because you made a joke.”

“A good one,” adds Molly.

Caleb fights a smile and ignores the look a passing Toya gives him.

+

If Caleb were asked what his least favorite school event is, he’d say field day without an ounce of hesitation. This year, he ignores the writing on today’s date on his calendar as long as he can—that happens to be until he’s standing in the bathroom, damp hair pulled up, and reaches for his already-buzzing phone. Among his e-mails, he finds one from Bryce. _Field Day Information_ sits like a neon red sign among the other titles.

“Scheiße,” he says around his toothbrush.

He manages to ignore its burning presence in the back of his mind for the next thirty minutes. In Molly’s car, though, he can’t fight it any longer. Over the steady hum of Guns N’ Roses on the radio, Caleb allows himself one preparatory groan before skimming. The meat of the e-mail is about encouraged activities, _dis_ couraged activities, the duration of the event—things Caleb regretfully knows from years prior. And then there’s the postscript.

 _Staff participation_ _is mandatory_ , Bryce has written. _You only have to drop by and supervise for an hour minimum, but both your fellow staff members and students would appreciate you sticking around._

Caleb scrolls to find a post-postscript: _Yes, the above includes you, Mr. Widogast._ _(Sorry.)_

He knocks his forehead against the window.

“Don’t break it,” says Nott, still half-asleep, from the backseat.

Molly simply smiles as a yellow light approaches, seeming like a metaphorical warning sign cloaked in early-morning fog. “You read the field day e-mail, hm, dear?”

Caleb doesn’t answer.

He goes forward in a state of perpetual fear, which couldn’t be said to be that different from his usual day-to-day outlook. He takes advantage of the lack of classes today to tidy up his library. It won’t make much difference in the long run, but it makes him feel momentarily better. Nott isn’t too psyched about field day either, and she spends most of the morning hunched over her laptop looking at apartment listings, so they get away with their relative silence until noon.

Then he’s forced to supervise lunch, which is held outside because Zadash Grade school a) does not have a bee problem, no siree, and b) renovated their blacktop over spring break. Any remotely sunny day since has gotten outside lunch. Today, the lack of wind is an added bonus when it comes to kids not having to physically hold their food and utensils down. When it comes to the unbearable warmth, it’s the literal actual worst.

Caleb tries to sneak back inside after the bell rings—to no avail. He takes a single step toward the cafeteria entrance, eyes darting around, and a large hand seizes him by the collar. He’s pretty sure his feet leave the ground for a second.

“If we’ve all gotta suffer,” says Fjord, his sunglasses cracked, “so do you.” Behind him, Jester giggles as she and a group of kindergarteners—including Kiri—blow bubbles. Fjord nods toward them. “See, you might have fun.” It sounds more like a question than a promise, and his face as he says it doesn’t help.

Caleb glances to the other side and sees Bryce looking him dead in the eyes. Well. “Fine. Do—do you happen to have sunscreen?” he says, and Fjord conjures a bottle apparently out of thin air.

Nott had sneaked away at some point during lunch, it seems. Caleb realizes this while he’s applying sunscreen to his face and forearms (which he rolls up his sleeves for). Given her height and the fact that there are over three hundred people outside right now, he doesn’t find her. He’ll keep an ear out, he decides. He gives Fjord his sunscreen back and wanders toward the basketball court to find something to do.

There’s no shortage of options. The sheer amount of stations and people reminds Caleb of the Halloween carnival, if more spread out. And without costumes. He spots a familiar purple mane against the grass, and before he can decide otherwise, he finds himself walking over. On the way, he passes Desmond running a karaoke machine; Yasha, surrounded by adoring students, running laps; Beau teaching kids how to lob beanbags (or maybe throw punches, judging from her current motions); and Pumat trading small tokens for Otter Pops. Caleb’s attention doesn’t linger too long on any of these scenes—in the end, it always travels back to the field.

Molly lifts his head at his approach. Though he’d already been mid-laugh, absorbed in the conversation he’d been part of, his smile widens. “Ah, Mr. Widogast,” he says, “I thought you’d never leave your lair.”

The students surrounding him giggle. Molly nudges one with his mud-splattered boot and pretends it hasn’t made him preen.

“Someone would have dragged me out by the ears eventually. And by _someone_ , I mean Mrs. Lavorre,” says Caleb. He tilts his head at the group sprawled across this corner of the field—Toya is sitting on her knees behind Molly, mouth twisted in concentration and hands tangled in his hair. Around them are several other kids, watching with rapt attention. “What is happening here?”

“Oh, Toya is giving me flower braids, and the rest of ‘em are just hanging out,” says Molly brightly. “How’s it look so far?”

On cue, Toya lets go of his hair and twists his head to the side. Caleb stares longer than most would consider socially acceptable. The sun places a warm shine on Molly’s face and jewelry (the sun and moon earrings, of course, and several subtle studs in his face). The loose front of his hair has been braided like a headband, separating his bangs from the back of his hair, which is done into two messy braids. Small pink and yellow flowers from the field are woven along each braid. One large red flower rests behind his ear; its dark petals glint the same shade as his eyes.

Caleb’s breath hits him all at once. “It looks lovely,” he says, and Molly smiles. Pointed, Caleb shifts his gaze to Toya. “Where, uh—where did you learn how to do this?”

Toya flushes and toys with her own braid. “Mrs. Lavorre taught me.”

Makes sense. Caleb opens his mouth, not completely sure what he’s going to say next—he’s saved from saying anything by a small body slamming into his legs and almost knocking him to the ground.

“Caleb, I have to try this out on you right now immediately,” says Nott in one breath.

Molly raises his eyebrows. “I’d like to see that too.”

The students turn their expectant gazes on Caleb as one. He sighs, heavy, and sits down on the edge of the grass, hands on his knees. “All right,” he tells Nott, and the other kids cheer.

A good hour later, Caleb—hair twisted into loose flower-lined braids—has considerably warmed up to the event. He flits about the other stations. In the time he had been being pampered by a flock of pre-adolescents and his sister, Jester had set up a hula-hooping area, and as he passes, she waves him over. He declines and keeps moving.

Beau had also somehow coerced several faculty members, including Bryce themself (arguably their worst decision to date), into bringing out buckets of water balloons. The field, basketball court, and playground had been soaked within minutes. Caleb bumps into numerous people, students and staff alike, daubing at their wet faces and complaining of surprise water balloon attacks. He avoids Beau at all costs.

This means helping Pumat out with handing out Otter Pops. Pumat, despite the Beau-inflicted water clinging to his scruffy face, is as perfectly pleasant as ever. Caleb is content to hover behind the table as long as it takes if it means staying out of Beau’s little game. The sun beats down on them; it rolls off Pumat’s shoulders well enough, but Caleb wilts. His jacket is tied around his waist after an internal battle that lasts twenty-two minutes and sixteen seconds.

“Getting real hot out, isn’t it?” says Pumat.

“Ja, it is,” says Caleb, scratching at the patches of heat blotching his neck.

And that is, of course, when Molly weaves his way back over from—Caleb doesn’t actually know where, but he nudges through the line of fourth-graders to lean onto the counter. “Don’t complain to me about cutting, teachers are allowed to cut,” he tells bandaged-nosed Lucy, whose eyes widen with dreams of teacherhood. “Mr. Sol, good to see you, lovely day out… mind if I borrow your helper?”

Pumat waves a hand. “Go right ahead.”

Caleb realizes after about five more seconds that Molly means him. “Oh,” he says eloquently.

He glances between Molly and Pumat, both smiling the same jovial smile, and then steps out from behind the table. Molly pats his shoulder and guides him over to another area of the basketball court, beneath the shade of several nearby trees. A gust of wind rolls past. Caleb sighs with relief.

“Sorry—you looked like you were about to collapse of heat stroke, darling,” says Molly. It isn’t entirely inaccurate. “And, you know, I don’t particularly want that.”

“How touching.” Despite the flat response, Caleb flushes from more than humidity, and he drops his gaze to the wet blacktop. “Thank you.”

“No problem, I—”

“Hey! Bèndàn!”

Caleb barely has time to look up before a solid weight slams into the back of his head. Water explodes down the back of his neck, dripping down his collar, and despite the heat of the day, a chill runs down his spine. He snaps his hand to his neck and whips his head around.

Beau, standing a few feet away, flashes her teeth in a _yikes_ expression that gives way to a grin. “Sorry, machi,” she yells. “I was aiming for Molly, I swear—”

Molly steps out from behind Caleb and spreads his arms, grinning hardily. “Well, I’m right here! Catch me if you—”

Another balloon whirs past Caleb’s nose, and he backs up on instinct, and it instead slams dead center into Molly’s face. Across the blacktop, Beau whoops and high-fives the perpetrator.

“Fu—he—ffffrick yeah, Toya!”

Molly drags a hand over his drenched face and shakes it out on the ground. It removes about the same amount of water that a single bucket of water dipped into the Pacific Ocean would. His hair sticks to his face, darkened purple locks framing his cheeks. “I’ve been betrayed by my own student,” he bemoans. “Mr. Widogast, you have to fight her to the death and avenge me—”

“I think you will live, so no,” says Caleb.

Toya grins, then skips off. Beau saunters over, thumbs in her pockets, and whistles. “I’m really starting to warm up to her.”

“So glad to hear you’re bonding with my kids,” says Molly. He manages a smile and flashes it at Caleb, bouncing back enough to bat his dripping eyelashes. “Would you mind getting me a towel, dear?”

“No need,” says Yasha, and Caleb jolts upright. She’s standing beside Molly, probably having walked over from the track and not appeared out of thin air, and holds a towel in one hand. Molly snatches it with a gracious smile. Yasha glances at Beau. “You are still having fun, I see?”

Beau grins. “This is the most fun I’ve had ever, babe.” She pauses. “Well, maybe except for—”

Face burrowed in the towel, Molly shoves an arm out to clap a hand over Beau’s mouth. “This is an elementary school, Ms. Lionett,” he says, muffled but still audibly scandalized.

Beau rolls her eyes and flicks Molly in the wrist, making him drop his hand. “You wanna be the pot or the kettle, Mx. Tealeaf?”

“Probably none of us should have chosen to work at a grade school,” says Yasha, something like guilt flickering across her face.

A pause, in which they all silently agree. Caleb stares off into the distance, reliving every time he’s sworn in the vicinity of children. Molly’s head droops further into the towel. Beau scrunches up her nose.

“I’m gonna go find more victims,” she announces to the basketball court at large, shrugging.

Yasha sighs. “You know what, I’ll come with you.”

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” says Beau.

Molly lifts his head from the towel, beads of water going every which way. “Have fun,” he says. He makes direct eye contact with Beau. “Just so you both know, I was speaking exclusively to Yasha.”

Before either Beau or Yasha can react to that, Caleb says, “Have Shakäste check your, uh, victims for traumatic brain injuries.”

“I don’t throw that hard,” says Beau. When no one backs her up, she freezes and glances warily at Molly. “Uh. I don’t, do I?”

“Well,” says Molly, slow, like it’s a physical pain to say, “I’ve had a TBI and, while I don’t entirely remember, I’m pretty sure it felt worse than this. So throw all you want.”

Beau opens her mouth, then shuts it, apparently deeming it not worthy to ask about now. She grabs Yasha’s arm—their fingers link together at their sides. “C’mon, babe, let’s go kick everybody’s asses.”

“What a great couple,” deadpans Molly as they stroll off, grinning at each other and discussing plans under their breaths. He turns to Caleb and raises his eyebrows, eyes gleaming. “Want to go find Nott and see if we can hit even more people than them?”

A beat.

“Oh, why the hell not,” says Caleb.

+

Somehow, Caleb spends the last week of school both dreading and eagerly awaiting the last day. He goes through Monday and Tuesday as usual—tidying up the library when he can, including vacuuming Frumpkin’s fur so Fjord doesn’t complain; consoling fourth- and fifth-graders as emotionally as he can (read: not very) about the notorious puberty video; and ignoring the impending deadline.

When he wakes on Wednesday morning, it hits him. He glances across the room at his calendar, where _Last day of school_ is written in red on today’s date. Then he blinks at his popcorn ceiling instead.

“God, we spend all year complaining about the kids,” says Molly in the car, a couple hours later, “and then summer is boring as shit.” He pauses. “Well, last year Yasha and I went backpacking through Europe, but before that….”

Caleb can’t quite think of anything to up that, so he says, “I read over fifty books last summer.” (He can barely remember seeing the light of day last summer, now that he thinks of it.)

“Duality of man,” says Nott, and, well, no one says anything else for the rest of the drive.

Throughout the day, kids trickle into the library to get their yearbooks—and various other items, including sweatshirts and hats with the school logo—signed. Caleb trades groan-inducing summer reading lists and overabundant 3-D bookmarks for his signature. He lets them have their own pick of the bookmarks, for the most part; there’s enough of them that he lets a select few take more than one, though the first box is dwindling within a couple of hours.

A couple of Yasha’s fifth-graders drop by around an hour into the day, carrying their own yearbooks and their class’ due books. They also bring a gift from Yasha: a fifty-dollar gift card for the secondhand bookstore in the Pentamarket. _Go without our friends and have fun_ is scrawled on the card’s paper backing.

Caleb snorts. He grabs a random bookmark and finds that it’s a National Geographic one, depicting a zigzagging lightning bolt against a stormy sky. This must be what Molly’s tarot reading is like, he thinks, and then he hands the bookmark to Monet. “Give this to Ms. Nydoorin, please,” he says.

Three minutes after he dismisses the students back upstairs, he gets a text from Yasha: a thumbs-up emoji and nothing more.

Again, Caleb laughs, and he replies, _Takk kærlega. I will have a better gift for you eventually._

Nott, breathing down his neck, leans back. “I have to go do something now real fast I’ll be right back—”

“Okay?” says Caleb, but she’s already running out the door.

Ten-odd minutes later, Yasha sends, _Ekkert að þakka._ Another message follows it: _Nott ran out before I could say anything, but tell her thank you for the lovely flowers. They’ll add nicely to my collection._ Just as Caleb’s phone dings the second time, Nott appears in the doorway,

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Yasha said to thank you for the—the flowers?”

“She mentioned collecting them at one of our sleepovers,” says Nott defensively. “So I thought it’d be, like, a nice last-minute thing—”

“She said they were lovely.” Caleb, not detached from his work enough to put much thought into this conversation, redirects his gaze to his desktop screen. “Ja, I—I think it was a very nice thing. Don’t worry, Schwesterherz.”

Nott relaxes and comes back around the counter. She eyes the shrinking supply of bookmarks with suspicion.

“There are four more boxes in here,” Caleb tells her, leaning back to pat the cupboards behind him. “We’ll be fine.”

By a quarter to noon, he’s only had to break out the second box, and he’d done that less than minutes ago. The library has been empty enough that Caleb can think clearly again (or at least as much as he ever does)—that is, until a familiar figure appears in the doorway. Nott’s eyes snap away from June’s display case as she leaps to her feet.

“Hi, Kiri,” she says in a near-shout, almost tripping over herself.

“Hello,” says Kiri.

Caleb drags his gaze upward and musters a smile and quiet greeting. She’s for sure easier on him than the majority of the other (especially older) kids. Right now, she’s smiling and has pink frosting on her cheek and sprinkles in her fluffy dark hair.

“Do you need a tissue?” asks Nott.

Kiri tilts her head. “Need a tissue?”

“You’ve got some—hold on a sec.” Nott, frowning, wrestles one of the drawers on the counter open.

“Please do not break anything,” says Caleb. “I have to pay to replace everything.” (He’d learned his lesson about this his first year working here. The Incident About Which No One Will Ever Speak And Let’s Keep It That Way had involved Jester, a copy of _The Tale of Despereaux_ , and buckets of Gorilla Glue.)

Nott sticks her tongue out, but after she’s extracted a pocket-sized thing of Kleenex, she eases the drawer shut, perhaps to make a point. She scurries around the counter and leans down (not too far). While she wipes the frosting off Kiri’s face, Kiri stands still, hands at her sides—clutched in one, Caleb notices, is a book.

“Is that your yearbook?” he asks.

Kiri nods and steps away from Nott so she can hold it up for him to see—the holographic cover shifts under the overhead lights. In Fjord’s deep voice, she adds, “Mr. Widogast and Miss Nott can sign it.”

“We can,” agrees Nott. She glances over her shoulder—Caleb recognizes the hedging look in her eyes and doesn’t like it one bit. He likes it even less when she holds her hand out. “Cay-Cay, could you throw me a pen?”

“You are literally standing less than two feet away, but okay.”

With a sigh, Caleb reaches for the nearest mug of writing utensils. He grabs a Sharpie, calls it good, and flings it in Nott’s direction. It tips downward because his hand-eye coordination sucks. The pen—an Icarus in its own right—hits the carpet by Nott’s shoe with a feeble _thud_.

Nott pulls a face, even though there’s no way she’d have thought he could make a perfect toss, and kneels to pick it up. “Weak.”

“Weak,” says Kiri.

Caleb drops his head onto his keyboard, accidentally keysmashing into a book title field. “Do not teach her these things.”

“Too late,” says Nott.

Kiri giggles. “Weak,” she repeats.

Nott steps back over to the counter, yearbook in hand, a moment later, so Caleb still doesn’t understand why she’d had him throw the damn pen. Kiri follows after. Her smile is definitely one picked up from Jester.

After she’s scribbled out her signature and a little message, Nott passes the yearbook to Caleb. The opening page is covered in signatures from other students—Caleb spots two in the corner from Jester and Fjord, in pink and gold ink respectively. Nott’s message takes him a few seconds to read. _Steal from grump_ _y_ _people!_ he deciphers.

“Have you written this in every one?”

“Yep,” says Nott.

Caleb sighs. At least he knows why she’s been insisting to sign things after him now. He supposes it’s too late to confront Molly about this, and besides, he invited this by allowing Nott to work with children in the first place, so he lets it slide and picks up another pen.

“You don’t want to be pen buddies?” asks Nott.

“Not after the one you used has been on the floor,” says Caleb, lifting his gaze to glare.

Nott scratches her neck. “Not my fault.”

“Not my fault,” echoes Kiri.

Caleb groans (which Kiri also mimics) and hands the newly-signed yearbook over. Kiri takes it from him with a beam, then turns toward the door—

“Wait,” says Caleb.

Kiri looks back, beady eyes blinking, and Nott turns hers on him too. He shifts under the attention but doesn’t falter. Glancing down, he plucks a bookmark, one he’d surreptitiously hidden, from the box. He passes it across the counter—Kiri’s face lights up when she sees the holographic crow illustration, and she bows her head before she takes it.

He fights a smile of his own, instead clearing his throat. “Are you, uh—are you going to be going here next year?”

Kiri twists the bookmark a few times, wide eyes watching it flicker with the movement. Before Caleb can assume she hadn’t heard the question, she hums. “Going here next year.”

Letting his smile through now, Caleb nods and folds his hands. “Well, Mrs. Lavorre should be happy to hear that. Have a good summer, Kiri.”

“Have a good summer,” repeats Kiri, clutching the bookmark and yearbook to her chest. Still beaming, she waves at Nott and Caleb, and then goes dashing from the library.

“No running,” calls Caleb, and Kiri’s clacking footsteps outside slow down. He falters under Nott’s glare. “It—it is an actual school rule, Schwesterherz.”

Lunch and recess pass without any more incidents than usual. Caleb signs more yearbooks and articles of clothing and has a brief, unsentimental exchange with Beau. It’s a nice change from the constant reminder that school ends in less than four hours and he’ll be, he suspects, largely unoccupied for the summer.

Another uneventful hour follows, and then Molly’s class arrives. Molly, one hand behind his back, gestures Caleb over to the doorway. Caleb waves the kids over to sit and leaves Nott to watch them before he obliges. Molly slips his hands out to reveal a blue mason jar.

Blinking, Caleb reaches out to take it. As Molly’s hands fall back down, he notices specks of blue paint on them. He glances back to his own hands. Student signatures in a variety of colors decorate the mason jar—Molly’s, in glittery dark purple and affixed with sun and moon sketches, stands out. Rows of pencils sit inside, engraved with a variety of slogans and themes.

“There’s a Barnes & Noble gift card somewhere in there too,” says Molly. Caleb’s stare widens—he keeps glancing between the jar and Molly’s forehead, eventually sticking with the former. “I’ve been keeping these end-of-the-year gift ideas secret for literally months now, so I hope it’s paid off. …Caleb? Love? Are you all r—”

“You are infuriating and I love you so much,” Caleb tells him in an undertone, looking back up, and Molly blinks. “Thank you, this—this is good. Excellent. Wunderbar. If we weren’t at work, I would kiss you.”

Molly, pink-faced, blinks again, then flashes a dazzling smile and reaches up to pat Caleb’s cheek. His fingers linger, warm and comforting. “Ah, well, you’re free to later. Have fun with the brats,” he adds, lifting his voice so his students can hear.

There’s a class-wide protest. Caleb is uncomfortably aware of the mason jar’s weight in his hands and, with a final small smile, heads toward the counter to set it down. He glances back to find Molly still hovering in the doorway, eyes scanning the room with purpose.

“Miss Nott,” calls Molly, and she looks up from the corner. “I’ve got an end-of-the-year gift for you too, dear. Well, _we_ do.” He gestures toward his class with a little eyeroll.

Nott warily walks toward him. Still smiling, Molly waits until she’s less than a foot away, then slips a card out of his cutoff pocket. It’s also covered in little notes and signatures, and Nott’s gasp upon opening it is probably audible upstairs.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” says Molly, clasping his hands at his waist.

“You—you—” Nott gapes at him, seeming torn between punching him and hugging him. She does both: she slugs him in the arm and, immediately after, wraps her arms around his waist. Molly pats her head. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course, of course,” says Molly. “You might want to thank Jester too, she contributed—er—a bit to that.” He meets Caleb’s eyes across the room, smiles once more, and detaches Nott from him. “Ciao!”

After Caleb dismisses the class to wander the library, since it’s not like he’s going to let them check out on the last day of school (though he does commend them on returning all their books), he approaches Nott. “What did Molly—”

Without waiting for him to finish, Nott holds up the card. Caleb opens it—he can’t hold back a quiet gasp of his own. Taped to the inside, among student signatures, is a prepaid Visa card; the number above it doesn’t have a dizzying tally of zeroes, but it’s still more than either of them are used to. _I know you like shiny things,_ says Molly’s messy handwriting, curving underneath, _so here’s some pocket money. Don’t spend it all in one place! ;)_

Now that he thinks of it, Caleb hadn’t seen that Barnes & Noble gift card. He pledges to look at the price later so he doesn’t have a heart attack in front of a class.

Molly comes for his class forty minutes later. After that, it’s almost straight to the assembly, which sees Bryce giving a heartfelt exit speech and the promise they’ll be principal again next year. Gustav presents an award to each class—responsibility for Fjord’s class, best language arts grades for Molly’s, attendance for Yasha’s, and so on. Jester showers students and teachers alike with lollipops and homemade pastries. Caleb sits stiffly in his seat, reading his battered copy of _Twelfth Night_ , until Nott forces him up to pass out bookmarks and reading lists to the remaining students.

And then they’re released to the last recess of the school year. Caleb stays in his seat while herds of students fly through the two exits to the gym. He fully plans on shutting himself in the library until the final bell rings.

That’s not how things go, of course. Molly takes his hand and says, “Want to go for a walk, darling?”

“Sure, Schatz,” says Caleb, partially because Nott looks ready to wrap herself around his legs and stay there for the next hour should he refuse.

They do, indeed, take a walk—Molly links his arm through Caleb’s as they stroll absently around the playground and field. Aside from the various times they pass kids and teachers who strike up conversations (including Jester, who sticks flowers behind their ears and skips away), they don’t talk much. They just walk, reveling in the soft draft of the breeze.

They pass by Beau, who’s teaching a group of students—including Toya—how to throw a punch. Inexplicably, it’s then that Caleb tears up. Molly says nothing of it.

When the recess ends and the buses leave, the seven of them hover outside, standing in a neat cluster before the green-leaved cherry blossom tree. They’ve wound up here by seeming coincidence—Caleb’s not sure at this point if he believes in such a thing, though. Jester waves toward the last puffs of smoke from the final bus, hand swinging back and forth even when the bus disappears from sight. Beside her, Fjord slings an arm around her shoulder and rubs his red nose. Beau folds her arms as she leans into a blinking Yasha’s side. Caleb stands with one hand in Molly’s and the other on Nott’s shoulder.

For a long moment, they don’t speak. The wind sweeps over them; for once, they aren’t surrounded by screaming children or all-encompassing responsibilities.

Beau drops her head back and breaks the silence with a groan. “Fuck this,” she says. “I’m gonna do something that’s probably super dumb, but I’ve been wanting to do it for three goddamn years.”

Any urge to cry leaves Caleb as he stares at the sky. “Do _not_ climb the tree, Beauregard.”

“Fuck you, Caleb, I’m gonna climb the tree.”

“Have fun,” says Molly.

“Don’t get hurt,” says Yasha.

“I’m here if you do,” says Jester, patting her purse.

“I wonder if I could climb it too,” muses Nott.

Caleb looks hopelessly at Fjord, who raises his hands in defeat. “Hey, man, I’ve given up tryin’ to stop any of ‘em. You wanna get in Beau’s way, you’re on your own, I’m afraid.”

Beau grins and flexes.

“Pass,” says Caleb in under five seconds.

“Wimp,” says Beau, scoffing. Then she takes a step toward the tree.

The first step is tentative, slow; the second is bolder and broader; a third, and if the tree had a face, she’d be face-to-face with it. Beau inhales and presses a hand to the trunk.

“Are you trying to mind meld with it?” says Molly. Beau flips him off without even turning around. “Okay, yeah, fine, I deserved that.”

With another deep breath, Beau wraps her arms around the tree.

Jester giggles. “Treehugger.”

Beau ignores her. She flexes against the trunk, then seems to reconsider and takes a step back. Caleb raises his eyebrows as she reaches up toward her topknot. In a quick motion, she undoes the cobalt ribbon holding it up, and her hair falls forward. He folds his arms in consideration. Beau stretches the ribbon between her fingers, testing its weight, and reaches forward to wrap it around the tree—

“Oh my God, she’s doing _Mulan_ ,” says Nott.

“You bet your ass I’m doing _Mulan_ ,” Beau yells over her shoulder.

Yasha applauds. Caleb glances at her face—he still can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or not. Beau is encouraged forth no matter what. She lifts her foot up onto the tree and presses her sole into the wood. Relying on the thick ribbon she’s tugged around the tree trunk, she hefts herself upward.

“Beau! Beau! Beau!” chants Jester.

“Yeah, so that’s actually really distracting—”

Jester lowers her voice to a whisper. “Beau! Beau! Beau!”

“Thanks.”

Caleb’s eyebrows continue climbing his face as Beau continues climbing the tree. They go up a fraction of an inch with each second she doesn’t come crashing to the ground. She mutters to herself while she climbs, words lost to the distance and wind.

Against all odds, after a couple minutes of scaling the tree and slipping and hauling herself up again, Beau swings her legs over a thick branch several feet off the ground. She tugs her hair ribbon off the tree and drops it in her lap. Sweat visibly drips down her face, and she wipes a trail of it off her forehead, but she grins down at them nonetheless.

“I told you I was gonna do it, motherfuckers!”

Yasha applauds again, and this time, Molly and Fjord join in. Jester pumps her fists in the air and picks up her “Beau! Beau! Beau!” at maximum volume again. Caleb does the weakest golf clap he can manage. Nott tugs on his sleeve.

“Caleb, can I—”

“You know what,” says Caleb, “go ahead.”

Fjord whistles. With a contemplative look, Yasha stops clapping—to an “aww” from Beau—and turns to face Nott.

“I could try lifting you up,” she says, glancing at Beau. “And Beau can lift you the rest of the way.”

Nott’s eyes sparkle.

“Yasha, babe, you aren’t coming up?” calls Beau.

“I—I might,” says Yasha. It isn’t a good lie. Caleb gives her what he hopes is a sympathetic look while Molly snickers. Yasha coughs and adds, “I would just like to help Nott up for now, though.”

Beau’s expression falters, but she still looks pretty damn proud of herself. Yasha kneels to gather Nott into her arms. Nott goes a violent crimson as Yasha hauls her up like a sack of potatoes. Yasha flips her hair over her shoulder and carries Nott toward the tree, stopping under the branch Beau sits on. It’s higher than Yasha’s head, but she gets up on her tiptoes to hoist Nott up high, hands planted on her ribs. Nott squeals and squeezes her eyes shut.

“It’s _The Lion King_ now,” says Molly.

“Great, your Disney knowledge has been exhausted now,” says Fjord.

Molly, without looking away from Nott and Yasha, swats his arm. “Don’t you dare question my Disney knowledge, good sir.”

Jester nods in respect. Fjord looks justifiably terrified. A few feet away, Beau leans down from the branch to close her hands over Yasha.

“You’ve got her?” says Yasha.

“Yup,” says Beau.

Caleb claps his hand over his eyes before the exchange goes through—he doesn’t hear any screaming or small bodies hitting the ground, so he lets it drop after a beat. Nott sits precariously beside Beau on the branch, side against the trunk. She opens her eyes and stares down.

And, after the fear flashes past, Nott laughs and squeezes the branch. “This is fun!”

Jester drops her bag, dashes forward before Fjord can say anything, and tucks her hands under her chin. “Me next, me next—”

“Well,” says Yasha, who looks like she didn’t expect helping Nott up to work, “I might be able to—” She looks over her shoulder. “Fjord, a little help?”

Molly grabs Caleb’s wrist and launches their hands into the air. “Hey, there’s two other capable, able-bodied people over here—”

“Do not include me in that group,” says Caleb.

“There’s one,” corrects Molly.

Yasha fixes him with an unimpressed glare and beckons Fjord forth.

With a sigh, Fjord strolls toward her and Jester. He and Yasha exchange a nod, then support one side of Jester each and, together, heft her into the air and onto their shoulders. Beau stretches down to close her hands around a giggling Jester’s. Fjord and Yasha boost Jester’s legs at the same time, pushing her up between Beau and Nott. She lands on the branch gracefully, and—

The branch wobbles beneath their combined weights. Caleb holds his breath, but it doesn’t give way, and he exhales. Beau, Nott, and Jester sit in a row, legs swinging back and forth (it’s mostly Jester doing this).

“Well, damn,” says Molly.

Yasha sighs. “Molly, would you like to—”

“No thanks, dear,” he’s quick to say. “And I strongly doubt Caleb would.” Even so, he glances over for confirmation.

“I would sooner—” Caleb pauses, considering. “I would sooner sell my entire library, books and all.”

“Strong sentiment,” says Fjord.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” says Nott.

“Yeah, it’s baller up here,” says Beau.

Jester spreads her arms, almost smacking Beau in the face. The wind tousles her hair, stirring locks of black and blue around her and into her eyes. She doesn’t seem to pay any mind to it. “I’m flying, Jack!”

Beau wrinkles her nose. “I’d better not be Jack.”

“Well, if Fjord were up here—”

Fjord raises his hands. “Sorry, Jes, but that’s where I draw the line.”

They’re quiet for another long, long few minutes, and then Beau scoffs and stretches. Her neck cracks when she rolls it. Everyone in the vicinity (save Jester and Molly) cringes.

“This was cool a few minutes ago, but now it’s just kinda cold,” she says, rubbing her shoulder. Glancing down at them, she decides to pull a Jester, sighing and saying, “If only I had _someone_ to keep me warm—”

“No,” says Yasha.

Beau sniffs. “Fine,” she says, and then she grabs the branch and swings down to dangle in midair.

Caleb’s heart falls to his stomach. Beau’s feet aren’t too far off the ground, sure, but she’s still far enough up for this to be nerve-wracking. Molly opens and shuts his mouth, face paling. Fjord’s hands jump out. Nott’s eyes snap open again. Jester stops swinging her legs.

With a snort, Beau lets go.

The following scene plays in slow motion—Beau tucks her knees up into her chest as she tumbles toward the ground. Fjord and Yasha both lunge forward, but it’s Yasha, who slides onto her knees, that gets to Beau first. Beau lands in her open arms with a _whump_. Above them, the branch shudders.

Silence. Molly presses his hands to his chin and claps—Jester follows his example. Fjord and Nott breathe concurrent sighs of relief. Beau, blinking, breaks into a grin.

“Hey, Yash,” she says, “I _fell_ for you.”

Yasha snarls. Then, clear relief on her face, she presses her and Beau’s foreheads together as their breaths slow to a more normal rate.

Up on the branch, Jester lifts Nott and sets her back down several inches to the side so she can slide down the tree trunk. She lands neatly on her feet, humming and dusting her dress off. Fjord looks one hair shy of cardiac arrest.

Which leaves Nott. Her hands stick to the branch beneath her, knuckles white, and she pulls her knees up into herself.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” calls Molly, hands around his mouth.

Yasha eases Beau to the ground and stands on shaky legs. “Do you want me to help you back down?”

“No,” says Nott unconvincingly. “I—I can do it myself!”

She makes no move to do so, her eyes fixed on a random point on the ground. Caleb sighs, rolls up his sleeves, and steps forward. He’s vaguely aware of everyone staring at him, plus Molly whispering, “I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.” He ignores both of the above.

He tries to climb the fucking tree.

He doesn’t have Beau’s ribbon, but he mimics her anyway, digging his boot into the tree’s base as he wraps his arms around the trunk. Nott’s deer-in-headlights eyes flicker to him. Her mouth moves without sound, and Caleb can’t tell if she’s only mouthing something or if the volume of the blood rushing in his ears has risen over all other noises.

He levers himself onto the tree, foot grinding into the wood, and extends his arms. His legs ache with the strain, and he feels like crumpling to the ground, but he keeps his eyes on Nott, who scoots closer to the trunk.

“Jump down here,” he calls.

Oh, so now he can hear. It’s just in time to tune into all of his friends calling him an idiot (in several languages) all at once.

Nott squeezes the branch. “Uh, Caleb, I—I—”

Caleb grits his teeth. “Jump, Schwesterherz—”

And she does. For a brief and triumphant handful of seconds, Nott does her best flying squirrel impression, curling her arms and legs out as she leaps toward Caleb’s outstretched arms. The momentum and weight knock Caleb off-balance. He feels his feet peel off the tree, just a moment too late to right himself—

Time goes in slow motion again. Caleb squints at the tree as he falls away from it, and then his eyes squeeze shut, but he never hits the cold hard earth.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Nott on her back on the grass a few feet away, hand held up in a high-five for Beau. She can’t be in too bad a state, then. Caleb turns his attention to the arms around his torso. Light brown skin, distinctly tattooed. He cranes his neck to find Molly smiling at him—and behind him, holding them both up, is a stormy-faced Yasha.

“I told you,” says Molly, “able-bodied person.”

Yasha promptly drops them both.

Caleb chokes with simultaneous laughter and lack of breath as they come thudding to the ground, Molly’s sharp elbow knocking into his ribs. Molly sits upright to shout at Yasha and kick out, trying to catch her ankles and drag her down with them. She backs up a safe distance while Caleb doubles over. Nott scoots over to Caleb to chew him out for the badly-executed rescue plan, and then Beau joins in trying to knock her girlfriend off her feet, and Fjord and Jester will hardly be left out of the fun.

The next several minutes are a mishmash of limbs and chaos and lightheaded laughter. Eventually, though, they all fall—at first by coincidence, then by design—in a delirious circle on the grass.

Caleb lies between Molly and Nott. His chest rattles with laughter, and around him, everyone else laughs; whether they’re joining in or already had been, he doesn’t know. It’s a weak, wheezing, semi-hysterical kind of laughter—one that would seem odd to any unfortunate onlookers, but to them it makes sense, and that’s enough.

Their hands brush together. Caleb’s intertwine with those on either side of him—a ring on Molly’s thumb grazes his palm, and Nott’s stubby fingers squeeze his. He tilts his head back further to see hands linking all around the circle. The dizzied laughter fades after a few beats, replaced with somehow both comfortable and stiff silence.

Someone sniffles. Caleb isn’t sure who (or if it’s him) until Jester says wetly, “I love you guys all so much, dammit—”

Molly laughs. “We love you too, Jester.”

“Yeah,” says Beau.

“More than anything,” says Fjord.

“We’re—” Nott’s voice is small and shaky. Caleb turns his head to face her and finds her staring straight up, eyes glassy. “We’re still going to be friends this summer, right?”

A shuffling sound—undoubtedly someone sitting up. Jester, teary-eyed, leans over Nott and plants her hands on the grass surrounding her face. “Of _course_ we are. We’ll be friends forever. We’re—we’re the—” She pauses. “Okay, so we don’t have a fun group name yet, but we’re a group! And this year has been a—it’s been a _really good_ year. For all of us. Especially some of us.” Even though she’s still crying, she winks at Caleb.

Before he can react, Yasha adds, quiet, “You all are—you are the first true group of friends I’ve had in a long time, so yes, I agree with Jester.”

Beau hums in agreement.

“Fuck yeah, y’all,” says Fjord. Then he says, with a cough, “Well, Jes and I are going on our honeymoon next week so we can’t do anythin’ then, but, uh, we can probably Skype from Playa del Carmen, and when we get back, it’ll be for the rest of the summer, so.”

Molly, chuckling, taps a short pattern into the back of Caleb’s hand. “I personally don’t intend on going anywhere anytime soon. What say you, dear?”

And Caleb smiles.

For once, the world is at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap, folks!
> 
> thank you all SO, SO much for reading!!!!! i appreciate you all so much! thank you for taking a chance on me and my super self-indulgent project! i could make an abba joke here but i'm not going to do that, instead i'm going to say thank you again!! to the people who have been here for the beginning, for those who are just joining, for everyone who hopped on along the way: THANKS!!! half of my motivation was honestly yall and your feedback so i honestly can't thank you enough but i'm going to try!
> 
> it's been a rough summer tbh, and this fic was something of a coping mechanism -- and as the summer progressed, that became more and more true -- that grew out of control very fast. it's not only literally novel-length, it's the longest thing i've ever written and i'm extremely proud of that!! (is it too cliche to say it's been a labor of love? because, genuinely, it has!)
> 
> so what now? well, i do plan on writing some side stories (including a 3-part beauyasha companion fic, which i have a rough plan for, but i want to do some shorter one-shots too, including one where molly and nott go apartment-hunting. caduceus may or may not feature in that one). i do not, however, really have as much time to be writing -- school started on tuesday & i want to work on a couple of my original projects: specifically, i want to have a webcomic up and running by mid-2019 & i want to at least have started on a book by the end of this year, so that's gonna take a bit of doing (i'm still working on that anastasia au too, though it's definitely taken the backburner, and i have a beauyasha hogwarts au one-shot floating around in my wip folder)
> 
> uhh so tl;dr stay tuned, but just know that i don't plan on leaving this verse behind!!
> 
> last but not least, translations:  
> \+ imigh leat: away with you  
> \+ Bèndàn: idiot  
> \+ Takk kærlega: thanks a lot  
> \+ Ekkert að þakka: you're welcome
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow)


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